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THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 


"bEC  stared  out  at  the  moon.  'wHEP^T  I  DANCED,  I 
SAW  HIM  EVERY  MINUTE,  AS  IF  HE  STOOD  THERE  AND 
WATCHED    ME.*  " 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF 
HELEN  KENT 


BY 

SARAH  COMSTOCK 


AUTHOR  OF 
THE  VALLEY  OF  VISION.  Etc. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 

JOHN  ALONZO  WILLIAMS 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


Made  ia  the  Uoited  States  d  Ameriai 


COPYEIGHT,    1921,  BT 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED,   INCLUDING   THAT   OF    TRANSLATION 

INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

COPYBIGHT,  1921,  BT  THE  CBOWELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANT 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

AT 

THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY.  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 


PART  ONE 

CHAPTER 

I  The  Dancing  Psaltress 

n  California  Days  . 

III  The  First  Rebellion 

IV  Faces  in  the  Crowd   . 
V  The  Immortal  Hour 

VI     A  Cry  in  the  Dark    . 

PART  TWO 

VII  Coffee  for  Two  at  the  Spindle 

VIII  Bittersweet  Alley    .      .      . 

IX  The  Terrible  Gods    .      .      .      . 

X  Zelie  Faces  the  Inevitable 

XI  Roof  O'  Dreams        .      .       .      , 

XII  Spring  Lays  a  Trap  for  Helen  . 


PAGl 

3 

.  21 

...  50 

.,  72 

.:  85 

V.  110 

.  133 

.  150 

.  169 

.  195 

.  207 

.  220 


PART  THREE 

XIII  Bec  Enters  a  Strange  Gate      .     t.      .      245 

XIV  Adventures  Temporal  and  Spiritual   .     262 


M60v24 


i 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTBB 

PAGB 

XV 

"Ghosts  Rise'"      ...,.,    ,.      , 

.      284 

XVI 

The  Storm      ....... 

.      .     304 

XVII 

The  Spirit  of  the  Waterfall  >     [ 
PART  FOUR 

.      .     324 

XVIII 

Dead  Leaves    ...... 

.      .     345 

XIX 

Roof  0'  Dead  Dreams    .      .      . 

.      .     353 

XX 

Paradise  and  Helen       .      .      . 

.      .      359 

XXI 

Pursuit .<     . 

.      .     370 

XXII 

Helen  Reflects  .      .      .,     .      . 

.      .     376 

XXIII 

Autumn  Sands      .      ,      •     ,.     „ 

.      .    387 

PART  ONE 


THE  DAUGHTER  OF 
HELEN  KENT 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  DANCING  PSALTRESS 


••  -• .  • •, 


MORNING  lay  upon  the  city. 
The  sky  had  been  grey,  and  the  shadowed 
faces  of  the  skyscrapers  had  glowered  like 
sombre  gods  out  upon  the  waters.  But  as  the  sun  began 
to  break  through,  it  silvered  the  countless  aigrettes  of 
steam  that  tossed  on  high,  it  fell  upon  the  slate-coloured 
water  like  handfuls  of  broken  crystals  spattering  light  as 
they  struck.  With  the  sun  came  a  sense  of  buoyant 
promise. 

From  the  first  hint  of  day  the  city  had  been  drawing 
insatiably  from  all  directions.  Early  milk  wagons  had 
clattered  over  cobbles,  vegetable  trucks  had  lumbered  in, 
funereally  swathed,  workmen  had  come  running  to  catch 
boats  and  cars.  As  the  morning  advanced,  the  flow  had 
increased,  and  now  the  city  was  fuming  as  it  greedily 
sucked  in  life  from  everywhere.  Ferryboats  packed  to 
the  gates  plodded  across  the  rivers,  emptying  load  after 

3 


4    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

load,  returning  to  be  filled  again.  Shrieking  trains  dis- 
gorged their  passengers,  crying,  "Here  are  more,  more, 
more!''  From  stations  high  above  the  street,  streams  of 
people  poured,  and  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth  others 
scurried  up  like  ants  from  their  holes— all  drawn  to  the 
ravenous  creature,  all  impotent  to  resist.  Whatever  they 
possessed — ^wares,  brains,  hands,  gifts,  youth — these  they 
brought  eagerly,  to  fling  to  the  hungry  maw. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  sun  had  gained  full  possession, 
driving  every  cloud  from  the  sky,  touching  the  city  with 
a  rainbow-hued  brilliancy  such  as  rare  potteries  attain  at 
the;  hand  of  the  master  ceramist.  The  rush  of  travel 
was  at  high  tide ;  one  might  have  thought  the  entire  world 
to  be  assembling  here.  And  yet  it  was  but  one  day  like 
all  other  days. 

A  lumbering  brown  ferryboat  detached  itself  from  the 
Jersey  shore,  and  made  for  the  iridescent  city.  Its  pas- 
sengers huddled  indoors,  cowering  from  the  smart  whips 
of  the  December  air;  a  young  man  pacing  the  forward 
deck  was  obliged  to  address  his  remarks  to  a  horse  in 
default  of  other  companionship.  The  horse,  harnessed  to 
a  pickle-maker's  wagon,  waited  restively  during  the  brief 
period  in  which  his  load  was  shifted  to  that  other  aged 
beast  of  burden,  the  ferryboat. 

"You  and  I,"  observed  the  long,  lean,  strolling  young 
man,  "are  the  only  passengers  that  appreciate  the  hy- 
gienic value  of  fresh  air.  Or  is  it  the  esthetic  value  of  this 
vista  that  brings  you  here.''  For  myself,  I  am  led  by 
tvoth.     I  should  like  to  compare  your  motives." 

Upon  this  the  horse  shook  liis  head  sharply  and  ut- 
Jered  a  reply  that  sounded  like,  "Nei-ei-ei-either." 


THE  DANCING  PSALTRESS  5 

'*I  sec."  The  young  man  drew  his  collar  almost  to  his 
hat,  gave  a  weather-defying  swish  of  the  long  brown  over- 
coat he  wore,  and  drove  his  hands  more  deeply  into  his 
pockets.  "Neither  the  hygienic  fad  nor  the  artistic  im- 
pulse moves  you,  but  solely  the  prompt  delivery  of — 
Pickles.  Yet  who  shall  deny  that  Pickles  may  be  the 
highest  motive  of  the  three?  They  lend  a  piquancy  to 
life;  they  lift  it  above  the  sordid  bread-and-butter  plane 
(which  art  often  fails  to  do),  adding  a  zest  such  as  fancy 
adds  to  fact '* 

At  this  moment  his  observations  were  broken  off  by  a 
sense  of  something  sweeping  in  upon  his  consciousness 
like  a  fresh  wind.  The  door  of  the  crowded  cabin  was 
flung  open;  out  upon  the  deck  a  girl  came  rushing,  with 
a  laugh  of  sheer  delight,  calling  to  someone  who  followed : 

"Oh,  it's  glorious  out  here !  Come  on,  Helen — dhurry  ! 
Feel  it!  It  feels  rosy!"  She  pressed  her  hands  to  her 
cheeks,  and  the  words,  the  gesture,  somehow  became  one 
with  the  vivid  sting  of  the  air,  the  joyous  colour  of  the 
new  day. 

*'Wha1i  are  those  lines? — something  like: 

*.  .  .  Earth  is  a  wintry  clod : 

But  spring-wind,  like  a  dancing  psaltress,  passes 
Over  its  breast  to  waken  it.  ...'*' 

flickered  the  young  man's  thought. 

"And  look,  Helen !    Look  at  the  city !" 

The  other  smiled  with  indulgence  in  her  more  sophisti- 
cated eyes.     "The  bags  are  inside,"  she  said,  however. 

"Bother  the  bags !"  The  girl  seized  her  wrist.  "Come 
and  look !  Don't  waste  a  minute !  Oh,  it's  to-day,  Helen 
darling — do  you  realize  it?     To-day,  of  all  days!     The 


i6    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

day  we  enter  our  new  world !  Ours,  our  very  own,  dearest ! 
Oh,  Helen,  Helen,  are  you  nearly  hwrsting  with  joy?" 

The  other,  stiU  smiling  with  indulgent  maturity,  let 
herself  be  led  to  the  very  gate,  out  where  the  wind  lashed 
their  skirts  wantonly  to  the  form  of  their  lithe  bodies, 
while  their  eyes  were  stung  by  the  glittering  winter  sun- 
light, and  the  girl's  hair  was  whipped  to  a  foam  of  gold. 

The  young  man  covertly  observed.  What  he  saw  was 
merely  a  girl  of  perhaps  eighteen  or  twenty,  and  a  woman 
of,  say,  twice  those  j^ears — strangers,  ferryboat  passen- 
gers, ships  such  as,  in  the  swarming  waters  of  New  York, 
pass  by  the  thousand  and  seldom  even  speak  each  other 
in  passing.  But  for  some  unknown  reason  he  felt  a  curious 
indelibility  in  these  two. 

Both  were  young.  So-called  "middle  age"  being  an 
abstract  point  nowayears,  from  which  a  woman  may  pro- 
ject her  line  in  either  direction  she  chooses,  this  woman 
distinctly  projected  hers  toward  youth  and  arrived  there. 
She  was  in  full  control  of  her  tall,  supple  figure,  of  her 
alertly  dominant  carriage.  Her  tailoring  was  smart,  her 
manner  and  expression  brittle.  A  fantastic  comparison 
occurred  to  liim  as  he  waited :  *'She  suggests,"  he  thought, 
"one  of  those  tapering,  perfectly  groomed  blackbirds  that 
arrive  early,  looking  so  scornfully  capable — perhaps  it's 
her  sleek  blue-blackness — or  that  jetty,  cynical  flash  of 
her  eye,  which  may  be  slightly  malevolent,  but  what 
humor!  Holy  smoke!  What  a  dinner  companion 
she'd  be!" 

His  eyes  rested  for  moments  longer  upon  "Helen,"  then 
traveled  to  the  girl. 

"And  she  suggests — "  he  began,  rambling  on  in  agree- 


TKE  DANCING  PSALTRESS  7 

able  confidence  to  his  highly  interested  self — ^"she  sug- 
gests  " 

He  halted.  No  simile  came*  Perhaps  she  suggested 
nothing  that  he  had  ever  seen ;  or  perhaps  so  many  things. 
.  .  .  Again  the  hnes  flickered,  like  bars  of  a  forgotten 
tune  recurring  at  the  touch  of  some  association  of  ideas : 

".  .  .  Spring-wind,  like  a  dancing  psaltress,  passes 
Over  its  breast  to  waken  it. .  . ." 

"Bah!"  He  shook  his  head  disgustedly.  "Horrible 
word,  that  *psaltress' !  Sounds  hke  some  kind  of  cracker. 
And  Browning  at  that — as  'Helen'  would  say,  *He  lies 
with  the  crimson  rep  and  the  marble-topped  bureau,  not 
even  obsolete  enough  to  be  revived.'  '* 

He  paused  at  this.  It  occurred  to  him  as  odd  that  he 
should  be  attributing  remarks  to  "Helen"  in  imagination, 
when  the  sole  utterance  he  had  heard  from  her  lips  was, 
"The  bags  are  inside." 

"How  tame  the  gulls  are!  They  come  as  near  as  our 
own  California  gulls,"  he  caught  from  the  girl  just  then, 
as  she  turned  to  watch  the  grey  creatures  dipping  in 
curled  flight. 

"\Mierefromabouts  located,"  the  young  man  observed, 
with  satisfaction. 

And  of  a  sudden  he  saw  what  he  had  seen  once  in  a  hur- 
ried month  of  travel  years  before:  Hillsides  afire  with 
flame-coloured  poppies,  swaying  down  to  the  folds  of  fruit- 
bearing  valleys  v/here  the  rose  of  almond  blossoms.*  the 
white  of  prune  blossoms,  rippled  into  one  another  like 
blushes  and  pallors.  .  .  .  Miles  of  tliis  thing,  a  vast, 
fearless  opening  of  life,  he  recalled  his  impression — ^sheer 


8    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

life,  the  untrammelled,  undoubting  burst  of  it.  .  ,  .  Yes, 
now  he  knew.  That  was  the  girl.  She  was  the  essence, 
the  very  embodiment  of  the  spirit  he  had  found  in  Cali- 
fornia; life  so  intensely  eager  and  so  unafraid  to  live, 
to  fulfil  itself,  as  he  had  found  nowhere  else  in  his  wan- 
derings. More  like  ancient  Greece,  he  had  always  fancied, 
than  anything  else  we  have  nowadays.  .  ,  .  Yes,  the 
girl  was  ail  this,  and  yet  there  was  something  more,  some- 
thing that  didn't  quite  jibe.  California  had  seemed  so 
gloriously,  so  wantonly,  pagan;  California  was  an  in- 
stinct, like  possession,  or  love,  or  hate,  or  sex — "splen- 
didly soulless,"  he  had  once  said.     ... 

"I  am  drivelhng,"  concluded  the  young  man.  "I  have 
gone  so  far  as  to  attribute  a  soul  to  a  young  lady  con- 
versing of  caramels." 


n 


She  was.  **I  do  wish  they  liked  candy,"  she  regretted 
now,  as  her  caramel  cast  upon  the  water  failed  to  find 
favor  ill  the  sight  of  the  gulls.  **I'm  so  happy  myself  that 
I  want  to  feed  something !"  The  overflow  impulse  was  at 
high  tide.  With  an  open  candy-box  in  her  hand,  she 
glaftced  about  at  random,  and  her  eye  lighted  on  the 
horse. 

"He  IS'  pining  for  some !"  she  asserted,  and  made  a  rush 
toward  the  animal.  She  had  stripped  several  caramels  of 
their  paper  and  was  about  to  ofi^er  them,  when  she  noticed 
the  young  man.  His  attitude  beside  the  horse  suggested 
possession. 

She  drew  back.    "Oh !"  she  said.    Then,  *^o  you  mind 


THE  DANCING  PSALTRESS  9 

if  I  give  him  some  candy?  He  looks  such  a  gentle  old 
dear.  And  candy  is  very  nutritious — ^that  is,  it  gives  heat 
and  energy,  I  believe " 

The  young  man  lifted  his  hat.  "Let  me  express  for 
him  his  appreciation  of  your  thoughtfulness.  He  feels 
that  heat  and  energy  will  be  of  great  advantage  in  his 
line  of  work.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  is  merely  a  chance 
acquaintance  of  mine — ^I  happen  not  to  be  the  pickle- 
maker " 

"Oh !    I  didn't 1  thought ''    The  girl  broke  off ^ 

stammering,  as  she  grasped  the  situation.  Her  cheeks 
were  teased  to  crimson  by  the  young  man's  whimsical 
manner.  He  seemed  to  be  laughing  half  at  her,  half  with 
her;  after  hesitation,  she  decided  to  recognize  the  latter 
half  only,  and  she  laughed  frankly. 

"Then,  as  the  owner  isn't  present,  and  the  horse  agrees, 
here  goes,"  she  declared,  and  the  acquisitive  lip  gathered 
a  handful  of  caramels  from  her  palm, 

"Helen,"  strolling  and  amused,  had  followed. 

"He  is  so  delighted!"  the  girl  informed  her.  "I  don't 
believe  he  ever  had  candy  before  in  his  poor,  tired  old 
life.  Think  of  being  doomed  to  drag  a  pickle-wagon  day 
in  and  day  out — ^who  wouldn't  turn  to  the  sweeter  side 
of  life?" 

Helen's  smile,  that  quick  glance  of  hers  that  sug- 
gested the  glint  of  polished  jet,  met  the  young  man's  in 
adult  comprehension.  In  that  smile  he  caught  a  strange 
blend  of  cynical  insight  and  fatuous  doting.  "Isn't  this 
new-born  creature  delightful?"  it  inquired  of  him.  "It 
no  more  recognises  the  struggle  that  life  is  than  does  a 
colt  in  a  pasture.    We  know,  you  and  I,  that  the  pasture 


10        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  H^LEN  KENT 

is  surrounded  by  bars,  and  that  whip  and  harness  lie  in 
wait." 

And  the  young  man's  loafing,  whimsical  brown  eyes  re- 
sponded, "We  know,  of  course.  But  why  spoil  the  illu- 
sion of  a  limitless  and  eternal  pasture?" 

They  all  turned  at  the  sound  of  a  sharp  whinny.  The 
horse  had  just  discovered  the  difficulty  of  mastication 
peculiar  to  caramels;  his  jaws  wouldn't  work  properly, 
and  he  mouthed  in  indignation. 

"Poor  fellow !  He  isn't  used  to  caramels !"  The  girl's 
hand  went  out  impulsively.  It  happened  to  be  bare,  hav- 
ing snuggled  in  her  muff*  and  the  rosy  palm  which  had 
proffered  him  this  strange  torment  caught  the  resent- 
ment of  the  horse.  A  jerk  freed  his  jaws;  his  next  move 
was  to  snatch  angrily  at  the  hand. 

Just  what  the  young  man  did  never  was  exactly  discov- 
ered, even  by  himself ;  the  only  significant  point  was  that 
he  did  it.  That  loitering  purveyor  of  leisurely  philosophy 
became  on  the  instant  as  taut  as  a  swaying,  ease-loving 
hammock  suddenly  jerked  to  tension  by  its  rope.  The 
girl  had  gone  white  and  shut  her  lips  without  a  sound ;  her 
companion  had  made  a  futile  snatch  at  a  strap  as  the 
horse  jerked  its  head.  Then  there  came  one  swift,  pre- 
cisely-aimed movement,  and  the  girl  found  herself  staring 
at  her  unharmed  hand.  The  young  man  was  stuffing  his 
own,  with  elaborate  unconsciousness,  into  his  pocket. 

"Let  me  see  it."  "Helen"  was  as  restrained  and  au- 
thoritative as  a  nurse. 

"Nonsense!  A  mere  nothing!"  He  had  gone  slack 
and  smiling  again,  like  the  hammock  that  once  more  sags 
in  comfort  the  instant  its  rope  is  released. 


THE  DANCING  PSALTRESS  11 

"Let  me  see  it  at  once,  please."  Laughing,  he  com- 
plied. She  examined  it  carefully.  "Good !  Bruised,  but 
no  skin  broken.  So  I'll  shake  it,  with  thanks.  The  thing 
that  interested  me,"  the  ladj  continued,  deliberately,  "was 
the  way  your  energy  came  up  out  of  your  laziness  so" — • 
she  snapped  a  finger.  "Like  a  bolt.  You'll  do  something 
yet,  young  man." 

The  girl  was  profuse.  "It  was  so  brave  of  you !  And 
I  didn't  deserve  it.  I'm  always  getting  into  scrapes,  and 
I  ought  to  pay  the  price !" 

*'Even  if  you  ought — which  I  don't  admit,'*  the  young 
man  responded,  "one  article  of  my  creed  is  the  preserva- 
tion of  all  things  beautiful,  there  not  being  any  too  many 
of  'em  as  it  is.  Forgive  my  impertinence — ^but  I  couldn't 
help  noticing  the  finger-tips  in  question,  even  before  our 
greedy  friend,  here,  the  horse,  took  a  fancy  to  them.  I 
was  merely  living  up  to  my  belief.  Had  they  been  a  dif- 
ferent kind,  he  might  have  swallowed  them  without  a  pro- 
test from  me.    So  don't  thank  me,  I  beg  of  you." 

The  girl  flushed,  newly  unfolding  as  she  was  to  the 
world's  atmosphere  of  cross-currents  to  which  we  become 
so  accustomed  later  on  that  we  rarel3'^  feel  the  need  of  a 
wrap.  She  faced  this  tingling  challenge  to  her  poise  with- 
out a  flinch,  however. 

"All  the  more  to  your  credit,  then,  if  you  lived  up  to  a 
creed.  That's  more  than  most  people  do — even  when  they 
say  very  long,  solemn  creeds !" 

"Bravo,  youngster !"  "Helen"  acclaimed,  and  again  that 
glance  of  pleasurable  adult  amusement  passed  between  her 
and  the  young  man.  The  experience  of  her  years  met  the 
experience  of  his  sex;  there  was  mutual  comprehension. 


12    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

And  yet  something  was  puzzling  him:  something  in  the 
frolicsome  laugh  with  which  the  girl  had  said  "very  long, 
solemn  creeds!'*  making  a  inoue  such  as  might  a  pixio 
peeping  in  at  a  church  window.  It  wasn't  mere  common- 
place irreverence;  it  was  more  the  point  of  view  of  some 
elfin  being  who  had  never  known  reverence  and  thought  it 
droll.  .  .  .  And  just  then  she  took  a  little  dancing  step, 
unconsciously,  as  if  she  naturally  moved  by  dancing 
rather  than  walking,  and  it  gave  force  to  the  elfin  impres- 
sion— "a  jolly  big  elf,  though!"    .     .    . 

The  journey  by  water  was  drawing  to  its  close.  Invol- 
untarily they  all  pressed  forward  and  stood  silent,  facing 
the  city.  At  last  the  sun  was  complete  master.  High 
against  the  east  rose  the  jagged  outlines  of  the  city,  irreg- 
ular squares  sawed  out  from  a  burnished  sky.  The  build- 
ings loomed,  towering  above  the  travellers,  frowning  upon 
them  formidably  as  if  challenging  their  approach.  But 
over  all  shone  that  wonderful  iridescent  glory,  the  splen- 
dor of  the  new  day,  as  yet  unpolluted. 

It  was  the  girl  who  at  last  broke  the  hush.  Her  whisper 
came  tense,  between  indrawn  breaths : 

"Oh,  I'm  in  such  a  hurry — such  a  hurry — to  live !" 

She  stood  at  the  very  prow,  in  advance  of  the  others, 
and  she  seemed  to  the  young  man  like  a  ship's  figurehead, 
eager  to  breast  the  waves,  pressing  on  to  the  adventure. 

He  glanced  toward  "Helen";  she  was  still  observing 
the  skyscrapers. 

"And  'to  live'  means ?"  he  ventured,  in  response  to 

the  girl. 

She  turned  to  him,  and  their  eyes  met.  And  at  that 
ipstant  something  happened — something  more  than   the 


THE  DANCING  PSALTRESS  13 

mere  meeting  of  young  eyes.  He  had  a  curious  con- 
sciousness of  something  important  occurring;  something 
very,  very  important ;  and  with  it  came  the  consciousness 
tliat  the  girl  was  similarly  conscious ;  and  yet  it  was  all  in 
a  flash 

"To  live,"  she  said,  slowly,  and  their  eyes  did  not  part, 
"ma}'^  mean  heaven  or  hell,  I  suppose.  But  whatever  it 
means  for  any  one  of  us,  we've  each  got  a  right  to  try  it 
for  ourselves,  I  think." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  unexpected  maturity  of  the  girl's 
manner  that  made  "Helen"  turn  so  suddenly ;  at  any  rate, 
her  glance  darted  swiftly  from  one  to  the  other,  then  fell 
across  the  meeting  of  those  other  glances  like  a  severing 
blade. 

Her  voice  was  sharp.  "We've  each  a  right  to  sables,  a 
liinousine,  and  plover — which  we  shall  possess  when  we 
claim  them.  Come,  youngster!"  she  said.  And  "good- 
bves"  followed. 


ni 


With  a  rude  embrace  the  pier  received  its  ferryboat; 
the  landward  rush  was  released.  The  young  man  erased 
himself  promptly,  in  full  recognition  of  the  conventions. 
Nevertheless,  while  assuming  no  right  to  accompany,  he 
maintained  the  right  to  observe.  From  a  discreet  distance 
he  kept  the  two  within  his  range  of  vision. 

They  walked  briskly,  the  elder  woman  in  the  lead  and 
purposeful.  She  gave  over  the  bags  to  a  porter  who  had 
singled  these  out  as  travellers  used  to  the  attentions  that 
make  for  self-respecting  ease.    They  were  both  far  better 


14    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

able  to  swing  off  with  their  own  suitcases  than  was  the 
little  drab,  spinsterish  person  just  beyond;  but  in  some 
way  this  "Helen"  conveyed  the  idea  that  she  did  not  intend 
to  carry  her  own  bags  and  therefore  would  never  have 
to,  while  the  frail  spinster,  tilting  to  one  side  against  the 
weight  of  hers,  plainly  accepted  the  burden  and  so  invited 
it  to  remain. 

"Find  me  a  taxicab,"  the  young  man  heard  "Helen" 
give  instruction.  ' 

"Yes'm.     Right  this  way,  ma'am." 

He  found  himself  borne  on  by  the  speed  of  the  pilot 
porter,  and  he  hurried,  endeavouring  to  keep  the  precise 
distance  that  combined  discretion  and  observation.  But 
the  crowd  hindered  him.  There  came  a  swift  eclipse,  as 
streaming  commuters  blotted  out  the  two — he  darted  the 
wrong  way — caught  again  the  glint  of  the  girl's  hair — 
followed,  rushing  wildly — there  was  an  obliterating  curve, 
despair — then  of  a  sudden  he  found  himself  almost  upon 
the  two,  who  had  halted. 

"But  I  want  a  taxicab,"  the  older  was  protesting. 

"Too  bad,  ma'am.  I  dunno  why,  but  the'  don't  seem  to 
be  nothin'  'round  but  them  two  haansom  caabs." 

The  lady  shrugged,  and  accepted  the  situation  with 
contempt.     The  girl  clasped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad!  I  love  these  jouncy,  stuffy  old  coops! 
And  the  way  they  smell  is  exciting,  like  the  smell  of  train 
smoke!  It  makes  me  feel  that  I'm  going  somewhere. 
'Want  a  hansom,  hansom,  hansom.?'  "  he  heard  her  voice 
mimicking  as  the  cab  door  banged  upon  the  two. 

Suddenly  an  idea,  bom  of  their  change  of  plan,  halted 
the  young  man  stock-still  upon  the  pavement.    After  all, 


THE  DANCING  PSALTRESS  15 

they  were  not  being  whirled  from  his  sight  at  taxicab 
speed;  they  were  jolting  sluggishly  off.  .  .  .  He 
plunged  a  hand  into  a  pocket,  rummaged,  drew  forth  a 
half-dollar,  a  quarter,  a  dime.     That  was  all. 

One  cab  still  remained.  Its  driver,  a  solemnly  impres- 
sive person,  met  his  questioning  eye. 

*'Fatherly  by  nature,  and  an  ex-professor  of — well, 
say  classical  literature,  to  judge  by  appearances.  There- 
fore he  should  comprehend  the  finer  feelings."  The  young 
man  beckoned. 

"This  is  at  present  my  entire  fortune,"  he  informed 
the  impressive  person,  displaying  his  few  coins.  "What 
would  you  advise  me  to  do:  keep  it  that  I  may  lunch 
to-day,  or  employ  you  to  follow  the  cab  containing  those 
ladies?  It  would  be  your  gamble — you  might  drive  ten 
blocks  or  ten  miles  for  the  sum." 

Only  an  instant  did  the  impressive  person  reflect ;  then 
he  lived  up,  and  fully,  to  the  judgment  formed  of  him. 

"If  it  comes  to  a  choice  between  lunch  and  a  lady,  sir, 
and  I'm  asked  to  give  my  advice  on  the  point  at  issue, 
would  state — "  the  cabman  paused  to  make  sure,  and 
gathered  that  he  was  to  continue —  "that  there's  some- 
thing— something  about  a  lady,  sir,  that  you'll  remember 
when  even  the  most  superb  menu  has  long  faded  into  ob- 
livion."    And  he  held  open  his  cab  door. 

The  young  man  plaited  his  lean  length  within  the  cab. 

"The  main  difference  between  him  and  me  lies  in  our 
direction,"  he  observed.  "On  the  road  toward  Better  Days 
I  meet  him  coming  away.  We  hail  in  passing — exchange 
a  few  coins  for  a  ride  and  a  bit  of  philosophy,  and  clink 
invisible  glasses  to  the  Eternal  Feminine." 


16   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Then  he  sat  up  abruptly.  Again  that  surprising  ten- 
sion occurred,  as  of  the  swaying  hammock  suddenly  jerked 
taut.  For  the  cab  ahead,  which  had  never  once  escaped 
the  comer  of  his  eye,  had  given  an  unexpected  lunge  into 
the  seething  traffic,  and  was  disappearing. 

He  leaned  forward,  tense,  sharp.  "Follow!  If  it 
means  a  smash-up !" 


IV 


With  a  crack  of  his  whip  the  impressive  person  plunged 
into  the  crowd,  following  like  a  sheriff  in  the  wake  of  a 
murderer,  and  now  the  chase  became  desperate.  Through 
congested  blocks  it  led,  around  swift  comers,  wending, 
zigzagging.  Now  the  cab  ahead  would  vanish  utterl}^ 
now  it  would  flash  into  sight,  only  to  be  snatched  again 
into  a  new  vortex.  At  Thirty-Fourth  Street  it  crossed; 
as  its  pursuer  was  about  to  do  the  same,  a  blockade  of 
delayed  trolley-cars  pressed  forward,  halting  all  traffic. 

"Make  it!"  cried  the  young  man,  and  he  was  on  the 
verge  of  leaping  to  the  seat  and  snatching  the  lines  him- 
self. 

"I  will,  sir — trust  me!"  came  back  to  him,  like  the 
voice  of  onmipotence.  And  as  a  small  opening  formed 
itself  between  two  of  the  cars,  the  impressive  person 
drove  straight  into  it,  despite  the  shouts  and  wavings 
of  a  policeman — ^wedged  his  vehicle  in,  wormed  it  through, 
extricated  it,  and  was  at  the  chase  again,  lashing  like  a 
chariot  racer. 

In  a  cross-street  a  few  blocks  further  north,  and  near 
Fifth    Avenue,    two    ladies    were    seen    descending    from 


THE  DANCING  PSALTRESS  17 

their  cab.     They   entered   a   hotel,   and  bags   followed. 

The  young  man's  tension  scattered  as  quickly  as  it 
had  gathered.  "Thank  fortune!"  he  sighed,  in  a  long 
breath  of  relief.  "Saved!  And  I  might  have  lost  them 
forever  !'* 

He  unplaited  himself  with  luxurious  slowness  from  the 
cab's  confinement,  and  once  more  the  garment  of  imper- 
turbability fell  over  his  shoulders. 

"Bravo !"  he  praised  the  charioteer.  "My  paltry  coins 
are  poor  reward  for  your  heroic  effort.  But  such  as  they 
are — "  and  he  proffered  them. 

Then  occurred  one  of  the  most  amazing  incidents  re- 
corded in  the  history  of  the  Metropolis.  For  the  impres- 
sive person,  bowing,  refused  the  coins. 

"It  has  been  my  privilege  to  assist  in  an  affair  of  the 
heart,  sir,"  said  he.  "And  I  would  state  that  this  fact 
alone  is  sufficient  recompense."  With  which  expression  of 
sentiment  he  drove  off  so  promptly  that  the  young  man 
had  no  opportunity  to  insist,  but  was  left  dumfounded  at 
the  curb,  his  money  gaping  back  at  him  from  his  extended 
palm. 

"It^s  incredible.  It's  an  hallucination,"  he  muttered. 
"A  New  York  cabman!"  Still  dumfounded,  he  turned 
and  went  slowly  on.  "Is  it,  I  wonder,"  he  questioned  the 
unseen  powers,  "a  day  when  the  earth  rocks  and  the 
heavens  faU?"  He  shook  a  pondering  head  and  strolled 
on  past  the  hotel. 

The  whereabouts  of  the  two  was  established.  No  need 
for  haste  now.    In  fact,  discretion  advised  delay. 

He  wandered  off  toward  Fifth  Avenue,  strolled  aim- 
lessly, conversed  with  his  thoughts.     "A  bit  of  a  caprice, 


18   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

this  pursuit  of  mine,"  he  reassured  them,  blandly.  "I'm 
a  whimsical  chap,  you  know,  and  there's  no  accounting 
for  my  impulses."  In  fact,  he  strove  earnestly  to  give 
his  challenging  thoughts  the  impression  that  he  might 
do  this  sort  of  thing  any  day. 

It  was  two  o'clock  before  he  realised  that  food  might 
be  refreshing  and  that  he  still  had  the  price  of  it.  "A 
shame  to  lunch  at  the  Professor-of-Literature's  expense," 
he  thought,  "but  I  didn't  even  get  his  number.  So  here 
goes !" 

He  sought  a  table  d'hote  and  lunched  at  his  leisure, 
with  that  enjoyable  dallying  that  denotes  assurance.  He 
set  down  an  empty  coffee  cup  at  last,  and  lighted  a  cig- 
arette. Yes ;  it  would  be  safe  by  now  to  proceed  with  his 
"whim."  Smoking  and  sauntering,  he  approached  the 
hotel. 

Carefully  he  ran  his  eye  down  the  arrivals  of  that  date. 

A  man  and  large  family,  two  married  couples,  three 
lone  men,  one  lone  woman — no  other  names. 

"But,"  he  protested,  staring  at  the  clerk,  "two  ladies 
arrived  this  morning " 

He  scanned  the  page  again. 

"Yes,  but  they  didn't  stop.  They  found  a  message 
from  a  friend,  and  they  left  for  her  home." 

That  was  all.    No  name  recalled,  no  address  left.   .   .    , 

So  vivid  had  been  the  young  man's  visualisation  of  an- 
other meeting  that  this  unforseen  whirl  of  chance  left 
him  confounded.  Slowly  he  turned  away,  and  walked 
heavily  back  to  the  Avenue. 

Absurd,  he  told  his  thoughts — the  mere  bubble-burst 
of  a  ridiculous  boyish  whim. 


THE  DANCING  PSALTRESS  19 

Yes,  absurd. 

He  repeated  this  adjective  at  brief  intervals  for  several 
minutes,  emphasising  it  from  time  to  time  by  such  adverbs 
as  "utterly,"  "supremely,"  "preposterously,"  "consum- 
mately," "assininely."  In  fact,  there  were  no  words  prop- 
erly to  express  the  absurdity  of  the  whole  situation. 

AVhat  had  he  expected  to  do,  anyway?  he  demanded  of 
his  absurd  self.  To  rush  in  upon  two  ladies  with  whom 
luck  had  scraped  for  him  a  transient  acquaintance,  and 
greet  them  like  a  long-lost  brother?  He  had  pursued 
them  as  if  life  depended  on  the  pursuit,  had  waited  in 
anticipation  of  a  meeting  which  would  probably  have  won 
for  him  a  pair  of  cool  nods.     .    .     . 

He  continued,  unknowing,  to  walk  on  and  on  up  the 
Avenue. 

Absurd,  chimed  his  brain,  absurd,  absurd,  absurd ! 

And  still  as  he  continued  to  wander,  there  persisted 
before  him  a  picture;  it  rose  determinedly  between  his 
eyes  and  the  mere  physical  objects  that  confronted  them. 
The  picture  was  disorderly  in  its  parts,  like  some  disturb- 
ing dream  in  which  one  thing  slips  into  another,  all  a 
jumble  of  photographs  imposed  upon  one  plate,  but  from 
the  jumble  two  figures  emerged. 

There  was  the  woman,  who  made  one  think  of  a  cynical, 
handsome,  cocksure  blackbird,  and  who  would  not  be  easy 
to  disobey. 

And  there  was  the  girl.  At  the  prow  of  the  old  brown 
ferryboat  he  saw  her :  a  slender  figure,  all  light  and  tingle 
like  the  morning  .  .  .  pressing  forward,  too,  like  the 
morning  .  ,  .  yes,  in  such  a  hurry,  such  a  desperate 
hurry  was  the  girl.    Again  he  saw  the  skyscrapers  frown*- 


20    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

ing  down  formidably,  challenging  approach;  beyond  and 
amove  their  sternness  shone  again  that  wonderful  iride- 
scent glory,  the  splendor  of  the  new  day.  And  again 
that  tense  whisper  like  a  prayer,  uttered  to  what  god^ 
he  could  not  guess : 

"Oh,  I'm  in  such  a  hurry — such  a  hurry — to  live!*' 


CHAPTER  II 
CALIFORNIA  DAYS 


A  BRITTLE  winter  sunlight  glittered  in  at  the 
afternoon  windows  of  a  small  uptown  apart- 
ment, and  met  its  spirit  of  bright  vigor  halfway. 
It  discovered  one  occupant  poised  on  the  top  of  a  step- 
ladder  and  tweaking  a  picture's  wire;  the  other  standing 
below,  her  head  cocked,  her  long  fingers  pressed  downward 
against  her  long  hips,  in  an  attitude  of  critical  observa- 
tion. 

"Down  on  the  right there ^no,  that's  too  much, 

Bee.    I  can't  see  through  you,  child !    Duck !" 

Bee  crouched  upon  the  step,  protesting,  nevertheless. 

"You're  so  particular,  Helen  darling!  What  if  it  is 
just  a  teeny,  weeny  crooked " 

She  sprang  upright  again,  and  fluttered  by  some  mirac- 
ulous movement  to  the  floor — a  movement  that  seemed  to 
spurn  descent  by  steps — and  alighted  like  a  wide-winged 
butterfly. 

"I'm  too  happy  to  care  whether  a  picture  is  straight  or 
crooked!  What  does  it  matter?"  Her  arm  encircled  the 
other's  waist,  and  she  whirled.  "Helen  dearest,  isn't  the 
whole  apartment  simply  a;o7zderf ul  ?  Don't  let's  work  any 
more  to-day — let's  just  gloat!" 

21 


22   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

The  other  laughed  in  her  indulgent  way.  "Which 
means,  *I'll  run  away  and  play,  and  somehow  the  work  will 
do  itself."  Again  that  odd  mixture  of  cynical  insight  and 
fatuous  doting  noted  once  by  a  young  man  on  a  ferry- 
boat.    "All  right — run  along.     Anna  will  help  me." 

"But  I  didn't  mean  to  crawl  out !  I'll  stay,  dear — truly 
I  will!"     Penitence  inspired  a  violent  embrace. 

"No — ^go  for  your  walk,  before  dark.  And  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  think  I  may  get  on  more  expeditiously  with 
Anna."  Helen  drove  the  girl  off — much  like  driving  a 
capricious  butterfly,  the  task  was;  as  when  a  winged 
creature  dashes  here,  there,  everywhere  except  out  the 
door  that  you  hold  open,  and  returns  to  hover,  and  flut- 
ters in  your  face  till  you  are  distracted,  and  then  of  a 
sudden  darts  straight  out  where  it  might  have  escaped 
in  the  first  place,  and  with  one  brightly  vanishing  wave 
of  its  wings  is  gone  beyond  recall. 

Helen  turned  back  to  the  task  of  "settling."  The  rugs 
were  down,  the  furniture  in  place,  some  pictures  hung.  A 
precious  table  of  teakwood  gleamed  ruddy-black;  a  few 
other  good  Oriental  bits  brought  from  California,  such 
as  an  antique  Satsuma  bowl,  a  rare  old  Japanese  charcoal- 
burner,  stood  about.  The  atmosphere  of  good  taste  and 
charm  was  even  now  making  itself  felt  in  the  little  living- 
room  and  the  adjoining  dining-room.  But  many  books 
still  lay  wrapped  while  empty  shelves  awaited  them;  and 
yards  of  yellow  drapery  stuff  still  lay  uncut  into  cur- 
tains. Helen  lazily  passed  it  through  her  fingers.  Its 
very  touch  was  exquisite. 

"It  will  keep  me  poor  for  weeks,"  she  reflected,  with 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  23 

satisfaction.  And  still  she  caressed  the  curtain-stuff,  and 
still  she  did  not  summon  Anna  from  the  kitchen. 

She  crossed  the  room  and  stood  looking  down  into  the 
street.  Bee  emerged  from  the  building,  craned  her  neck 
toward  this  high  window,  saw,  waved  her  grey  squirrel 
muff.  Helen  watched  her  winging  on  toward  the  riverside 
until  she  was  out  of  sight. 

Already  the  short  winter  day  was  waning  indoors.  Out 
there  it  burnished  the  river  to  copper,  it  flamed  behind 
skeleton  trees,  throwing  them  into  sharp  relief;  it  cast 
a  strange  glamour  over  the  bleak  wheels  and  chutes  of  a 
summer  playground  atop  the  Palisades,  turning  these  for- 
saken toys  to  mirage-like  spires  and  domes.  Even  a  stem 
battleship  took  on  a  moment's  brilliancy. 

Helen  watched  the  copper  lustre  dull  slowly.  The  mi- 
rage faded.  The  river  dimmed  from  copper  to  grey,  and 
a  sombre  light  supplanted  the  brief  ruddiness  behind  the 
winter  trees. 


Helen  had  turned  from  the  window.  Although  the  outer 
world  was  still  lighted  after  a  glimmery  fashion,  the  room 
was  now  shadowy  with  dusk.  She  glanced  at  the  work 
awaiting  her;  but  she  did  not  take  it  up.  From  the 
kitchen  came  the  faint,  insect  hum  of  Russian  Anna; 
from  the  avenue  a  block  away  rose  the  dim,  sea-like  roar 
of  home-going  vehicles.  Here  around  her,  stillness 
brooded.  She  was  in  a  nest  of  stillness.  She  lighted  a 
cigarette. 

She  leaned  back  in  a  deep  chair.     Her  crossed  knees 


24   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

revealed  trim  stockings  and  smart  pumps.  The  sleek 
tailoring  of  a  plain  black  gown  encased  her  as  his  plum- 
age encases  the  slender  blackbird.  All  this  the  young 
man  of  the  ferryboat  would  no  doubt  have  observed,  had 
he  been  present.  But  he  was  not  present.  Helen  Kent 
was  alone — agreeably  alone,  with  a  genial  cigarette's  glow 
for  company.  Now  and  then  she  uncrossed  and  recrossed 
her  knees,  turn  and  turn  about,  in  such  manner  as  her 
own  mother,  that  fastidious  lady  of  an  earlier  generation, 
would  have  deemed  deplorable.  She  blew  reflective  rings, 
and  leaned  back  still  more  deeply,  and  tapped  off  an  ash 
into  the  little  brass  tray  at  her  elbow.  A  love  for  finish, 
for  the  order  that  is  beauty,  made  her  as  fastidious  con- 
cerning her  ashes  or  a  picture  wire  as  she  was  concerning 
her  dress. 

Soon  it  would  be  time  for  Bee — the  girl  would  come  in 
like  a  sun  scattering  mists.  How  she  was  plunging  into 
this  new  world,  delighting  in  its  novelty !  To  be  sure,  she 
frankly  disliked  the  school  where  Helen  had  placed  her; 
but  "you  shut  your  eyes  and  swallow  it  quick  and  it's 
over,"  she  philosophised.  Neither  the  detested  studies  nor 
a  strange  metropolis  could  squelch  this  splendid  Cali- 
fornia-bom-and-bred  young  pagan.  As  well  try  to  squelch 
a  mountain  brook,  or  a  humming-bird,  or  a  sea  wind, 
or  a  firefly.     The  creature  simply  wouldn't  squelch.  .    .   . 

Good  heavens,  how  she  loved  the  child !  suddenly  struck 
across  Helen's  mind,  and  the  realisation  came  like  a  blow, 
as  if  it  were  a  new  thought.  Those  who  love  are  subject 
to  these  sudden  realisations  and  know  the  sharp  pain  they 
bring — ^the  sense  that  some  vague  but  dreadful  portent 
lurks  behind  them. 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  25 

It  wasn't  as  if  there  had  been  anybody  else,  anybody 
in  the  world,  Helen  mused.  All  her  eggs  were  in  one 
basket.     .     .     . 

There  rose,  in  that  shadowy  room,  a  picture  that  often 
rose — of  a  j^ellow-haired  little  girl  picking  up  ripe  apri- 
cots under  the  trees,  and  holding  their  downy  copper 
cheeks  to  her  own  to  feel  how  warm  they  were  from  lying 
in  the  sun,  before  she  plunged  her  small  white  teeth  into 
them.  Somehow  ripe  apricots  and  sunshine  and  Bee's 
babyhood  seemed  inextricably  tangled  in  her  memory. 
Perhaps  because  all  that  period  had  been  so  hotly  branded 
that  its  least  detail  was  more  vivid  than  yesterday's  hap- 
penings. It  covered  her  earlier  years  of  California 
life.    .    .    . 


m 


Helen  herself  was  but  an  adopted  daughter  of  tke 
Golden  State.  In  fact,  she  had  never  known  any  home 
*;xcept  New  York  until  a  short  time  before  her  marriage. 
Her  childhood  had  been  stamped  as  unique  by  a  doubt  of 
Grod  and  a  love  for  pickled  olives — a  natural  love,  in  itself 
as  unnatural  as  the  doubt  is  supposed  to  be  in  one 
reared  in  a  proper  atmosphere  of  church-going.  She 
was  the  product  of  a  moderately  prosperous  lawyer's 
family  of  the  old-fashioned  type,  of  a  long-established 
church,  of  precocious  and  omnivorous  reading,  of 
an  inclination  to  do  more  thinking  on  her  own  ac- 
count than  was  comfortable  for  family  traditions,  and 
of  the  most  disagreeable  but  most  stimulating  climate  on 


26   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

earth.  Being  what  she  was,  at  seventeen  Helen  Clifton 
went  to  visit  cousins  in  California. 

She  was  ready  for  college  and  determined  to  enter, 
but  resistance  was  strong  in  the  family  circle.  College 
girls  always  became  so  "strong-minded,"  her  parents 
contended,  in  the  language  and  prejudice  of  conservatives 
of  that  day.  But  a  way  now  presented  itself.  A  great 
university  had  flung  open  its  doors  in  the  West,  to  young 
men  and  women  alike.  .  .  .  Somehow  the  thing  was 
m^anaged.  A  doctor  made  the  fortunate  error  of  finding 
something  the  matter  with  her — California  climate  was 
prescribed — the  cousins  begged  that  she  live  with  them, 
near  the  university — reluctant  family  consent  was  the 
upshot. 

So  it  came  about  that  Helen  Clifton  was  a  college  girl 
of  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  was  a  crucial 
period,  and  girlhood  was  at  a  crucial  point. 

Here  in  America  three  factions  of  thought  were  enter- 
ing into  controversy :  one  representing  those  who,  as  the 
phrase  went,  "clung  to  religion'^;  those  who  were  all  for 
"science,"  and  those  who  caused  much  head-shaking 
among  the  first,  much  sleeve-smiling  among  the  second, 
by  "trying  to  reconcile  science  and  religion."  It  all  looks 
pitiful  and  rather  funny  to-day  in  retrospect,  even  though 
barely  a  quarter-century  has  elapsed  to  produce  our 
vantage-point,  as  we  recall  this  tortured  effort  to  "recon- 
cile" elements  that  in  their  fundamentals  at  least  have 
been  one  since  the  dawn  of  eternity,  and  that  only  man  in 
his  queer  perverseness  could  ever  have  contrived  to  sepa- 
rate in  appearance.  .  .  .  And  this  young  university, 
free  from  the  traditions  that  moored  older  institutions, 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  27 

was  plunging  courageously  into  the  new  current  of  scien- 
tific explanation,  letting  who  would  follow. 

There  was  no  urging  whatsoever.  The  young  craft  that 
preferred  quiet  harbours  where  their  forbears  had  lain 
peacefully  at  anchor,  found  such  harbours  provided.  They 
could  attend  chapel;  they  could  join  religious  associa- 
tions ;  there  were  frequent  opportunities  to  praise  in  lusty 
chorus  the  promised  joys  of  "Beulah  Land,  My  Beulah 
Land,"  and  to  proclaim  satisfaction  in  *'How  Firm  a 
Foundation,  Ye  Saints  of  the  Lord."  They  could  rest 
undisturbed  by  such  problems  as  "origin  of  species"  or 
"inheritance  of  acquired  character."  But  the  more  daring 
young  barks,  tugging  at  their  moorings,  found  a  certain 
small  faculty  group  leading  quietly  and  steadfastly  on 
into  the  perturbed  waters  of  biology  and  evolution. 
Those  that  tugged  hard  enough  broke  at  last  and 
followed.  Helen  Clifton,  entering  early  maturity  at  a 
period  when  both  religious  thought  and  femininity  were 
growing  restive,  was  prompt  to  join  them. 

She  had  been  bom  with  scepticism  peeping  forth  from 
under  the  lids  that  were  like  tent-flaps,  tilted  far  down- 
ward at  the  outer  comers  of  her  bright  dark  eyes.  She 
had  always  looked  as  if  she  didn't  quite  credit  anything, 
even  in  her  cradle — ^had  examined  her  teetliing-ring  criti- 
cally before  she  would  put  it  into  her  mouth.  The  scep- 
ticism had  grown  more  sure  of  itself,  had  occasionally 
asserted  itself  strongly,  as  her  lower  teeth — firm,  white, 
regular,  charming  teeth  they  were,  too — ^had  gradually 
established  their  position  slightly  but  fixedly  in  advance 
of  the  upper  row.     This  and  other  irregularities  in  no 


28   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

way  spoiled  the  well-cut  lines  of  the  alert  face ;  they  only 
individualized  it  the  more. 

For  all  her  scepticism,  she  had  drifted  on,  whhe  at 
home,  in  the  old  New  York  church  where  the  Cliftons  had 
engaged  the  first  pew  set  up  generations  ago.  In  this 
pew  representatives  of  the  family  had  sat  on  fifty-two 
Sabbaths  of  every  year  since.  Helen  was  wont  to  sit  at 
attention  until  the  sermon  began,  when  she  would  settle 
back  with  a  comfortable  sigh  and  proceed  to  "plan 
clothes."  Just  why  the  sermon  hour  should  be  so  pro- 
ductive of  fashion  dreams  among  young  females  has  never 
been  explained,  but  every  woman  knows  it  to  be  so.  Prob- 
ably the  roving  glance,  alighting  on  so  many  "Sunday 
bests,"  brings  stimulus  to  the  inventive  mind.  At  any 
rate  it  is  a  fact  that  the  number  of  gowns  and  hats 
designed  between  text  and  "finally,"  would  fill  innumer- 
able fashion  books  and  leave  innumerable  zealous  pastors 
amazed,  indignant ;  perhaps,  occasionally,  self -searching. 

Helen  approached  her  college  years  with  an  open  mind. 
More  open,  by  far,  than  anybody  suspected.  The  family 
had  heard  her  affirm  once  of  the  stately  pastor  that  "Dr. 
Mouser  was  an  awful  old  bore,"  and  although  they  saw 
to  it  that  the  statement  was  never  repeated,  they  were 
quite  conscious  that  her  opinion  had  not  changed.  But 
that  she  was  secretly  conceiving  of  certain  orthodox 
tenets  as  "howlingly  funny,"  they  never  dreamed. 

Her  young,  vivid,  incisive,  scornful  intellect  was  racing 
on,  breathing  with  gusto  in  an  atmosphere  where  old- 
school  orthodoxy  panted  and  wheezed.  But  the  lean 
hand  of  tradition  was  raised  in  warning,  and  sh^  saw  it 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  29 

over  her  shoulder.  It  bothered  her  now  and  then.  It 
would  shake  a  finger  at  her. 

The  warning  hand  was  driven  off  at  last.  "At  least 
science  can  do  one  thing  for  the  young  mind :  it  can  brusli 
away  cobwebs,  and  give  it  a  clean  room  to  furnish  afresh," 
one  of  the  vigorous  new-trend  professors  of  the  western 
university  was  wont  to  say.  It  took  this  vacuum-cleaning 
process  less  than  one  semester  to  leave  Helen  Clif- 
ton's mind  as  scoured  of  creed-remnants  as  an  empty 
room  of  litter,  ,and  herself  ready  to  arrange  whatever 
furniture  she  could  find  according  to  her  liking.  The 
aged  hand  nevermore  cast  its  shadow. 

And,  turning  to  look  about,  she  found  such  furniture 
as  she  had  never  seen,  avid  reader  though  she  had  been. 
Wonderful!  Darwin,  Wallace,  Huxley,  Spenser — and 
the  Germans,  those  wielders  of  terrible  might  in  thought, 
that  schrecMickheit  of  the  brain  —  Schopenhauer, 
Haeckel,  Nietzsche!  The  brutal  pessimism  of  these,  a 
certain  fearless  facing  of  so-called  "truths,"  laid  hold  upon 
her  formative  mind.  As  yet  neither  she  nor  the  world 
guessed  the  hideous  portent  that  lay  behind  the  fallacies 
of  their  doctrine.  She  seized  upon  her  new-found  authors 
at  random,  read  them  late  at  night  as  another  girl  might 
have  read  French  novels,  with  her  flame-colored  negligee 
falling  apart  over  a  lace  petticoat  and  a  box  of  chocolates 
at  her  elbow.  She  plunged  into  the  laboratory,  avowed 
herself  a  believer  in  nothing  that  could  not  be  demon- 
strated therein,  and  revelled  maliciously  in  the  electric 
shocks  she  gave  her  roommate,  who  was  a  member  of  the 
Epworth  League,  and  who  always  hummed,  depressingly, 


30   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

**Work,  for  the  night  is  coming, 
.  .  .  When  man's  work  is  o'er." 

while  doing  her  hair  in  the  morning. 

"I  think  it's  dreadful,"  the  roommate  said.  "When 
our  President  sits  up  on  the  platform  during  prajers  in 
chapel,  he  doesn't  even  shut  his  eyes.  He  sits  there  and 
looks  all  around,  and  doesn't  listen  to  a  word!" 

The  disconcerting  Helen  inquired: 

"How  do  you  know  .'*" 

The  roommate  stammered,  and  broke  a  celluloid  hair- 
pin. "Well,  I  just  opened  my  eyes  once,  to  see  where 
the  draught  came  from,  and  I — ^I  happened — to 
notice " 

Already  Helen  had  formed  the  habit  of  watching 
Prexy's  roving  eyes  during  prayers.  The  reason  she  sat 
through  them  herself  every  Sunday  was  her  curiosity 
concerning  various  creeds — ^now  a  Bishop  of  High  Church 
formalities  would  preach ;  then  a  staid  Presbyterian ;  next 
some  famous  revivalist  of  the  shoulder^slap  type;  once  a 
rabbi,  and  even  a  Vedantic  teacher.  This  fearless,  clear- 
seeing  young  university  made  a  practice  of  giving  its  stu- 
dents a  chance  to  hear  all  and  judge  all — ^no  sealed  orders 
here.  The  atheistic  Helen  revelled  in  this  opportunity  to 
compare  all  "the  funny  things  people  believed."  The 
morning  that  she  entered  its  broad-minded  chapel  to  listen 
to  the  Swami,  with  his  head  swathed  to  a  white  ball,  his 
silken  robe  trailing,  she  realized  that,  by  Atlantic  time, 
her  family  were  already  arising  from  a  roast  chicken 
dinner,  blessed  before  and  after,  recuperating  from  one 
Sunday  service  and  preparing  for  two  more.     Heaven 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  31 

alone  could  have  sustained  them  had  they  seen  her  now! 

Such  ideas  as  these  became  her  daily  diet : 

"There  is  no  such  person  as  God.  Ridiculous!  A  man 
with  a  long  white  beard !  Like  Santa  Claus !  I  know  now 
that  I  never  really  believed  all  that,  only  I  hadn't  brushed 
out  the  cobwebs,  and  I  didn't  quite  know  what  I  did  be- 
lieve. There's  nothing  but  cold-blooded  Law.  In  the  long 
run  it  makes  for  survival  of  the  fittest,  and  that's  fair. 
Our  business  is  to  be  the  fittest  if  we  want  to  pull 
through." 

Again,  "Aren't  people  funny  that  they  pray?  What 
do  they  think  they  pray  to,  I  wonder.''  How  can  you 
pray  to  Law.*^  You  might  as  well  pray  to  a  great  mechan- 
ism, like  an  engine,  to  stop,  or  run  the  other  way,  when 
it's  been  adjusted  and  set  going.  It's  silly!  There 
couldn't  be  a  ^special  dispensation'  for  one  little  indi- 
vidual.   It  would  upset  all  the  machinery." 

Helen's  conception  of  truth  would  often  have  surprised 
these  doctors  of  science  and  philosophy,  for  its  pessimism 
was  her  own.  The  natural  scepticism,  which  had 
been  part  and  parcel  of  her  temperament  from  teething- 
ring  days,  seized  with  instinctive  relisW  upon  the  idea 
of  chopping  up  old  creeds  for  kindling-wood.  Unfor- 
tunately, she  missed  her  teachers'  vital  point:  namely, 
that  this  kindling-wood  was  capable  of  creating  a  new  fire, 
warmer  and  more  wondrous  than  any  fire  of  yore.  Her 
professors  were  not  to  blame  if  she  perverted  their  teach- 
ings into  destructive  rather  than  constructive  belief.  It 
was  a  matter  of  temperament.  The  contents  of  her  kit, 
which  she  was  packing  for  use  later  on,  were,  in  brief:  a 
firm  conviction  of  no  m^ercif ul  God ;  an  assurance  of  dust- 


32   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

to-dust  and  only  dust-to-dust;  a  scorn  for  prayer  as 
"silly" — ^like  kneeling  and  asking  for  presents  from  a  stone 
wall;  and  a  cock-sureness  that  man  is  but  a  body  con- 
taining a  highly  complex  system  of  cerebration  which  he 
absurdly  flatters  by  calling  it  a  "soul." 

It  was  with  such  a  mental  background  that  she  entered 
matrimony. 


IV 


It  may  be  imagined  that  she  entered  it  by  some  scien- 
tific path,  finding  it  to  be  economically  expedient  or  eugen- 
ically  valuable  to  the  race.  Indeed  no.  Neither  economics 
nor  eugenics  concerned  her  one  whit.  Romantically,  rap- 
turousl3^,  Helen  Clifton  fell  in  love.  When  Vernon  Kent 
came  her  way  she  plunged  headfirst  in  love  with  him, 
within  twenty-four  hours  after  he  had  taken  the  initiative 
by  plunging  in  love  with  her.  It  seemed  as  if  the  same 
intensity  with  which  she  had  entered  into  philosophical 
controversy  now  turned  itself  into  the  channel  of  her 
passion.  There  was  that  wonderful  rush  that  we  see  only 
now  and  then  in  a  workaday  world — the  rush  of  wide- 
winged  youth  flying  to  the  meeting.  Helen  had  lately 
passed  her  eighteenth  birthday,  and  it  was  spring  in  Cali- 
fornia. 

Spring,  in  the  valley  where  this  university  lies,  comes 
shyly  up  in  February,  holds  out  a  nosegay  of  buttercups, 
pleading  softly  to  be  admitted,  coaxes  with  caressing 
winds,  and  by  March  gains  assurance  and  enters  high- 
handedly to  the  golden  blare  of  poppies.  There  were 
weeks     .     .     .     Helen  would  be  picking  pale  cream-cups 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  33 

while  Vernon  lolled  in  their  midst,  or  strolling  beside  him 
across  fields  of  poppies,  the  stems  parting  in  supple  avoid- 
ance back  from  her  skirts.  There  were  glittering  blue 
skies,  as  vivid,  as  intensely  blue  as  a  cloissonne  bowl; 
tumbled  clouds  which  piled  in  from  sea  over  the  mountain 
range  like  rollicking  fat  boys,  pushing  each  other,  shov- 
ing for  room,  by  and  by  romping  off  in  rowdyish  chase. 
Spring,  youth,  love,  California — these  combine  in  the 
headiest  mixture  that  can  be  distilled  in  this  land  of  ours — 
in  the  world,  indeed,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Italy 
and  certain  parts  of  North  Africa. 

From  the  first  it  all  moved  with  that  rush  which  had 
marked  the  meeting.  Young  Kent,  a  San  Francisco  chap, 
was  spending  a  few  days  at  the  university  when  he  met 
Helen  at  a  "frat-house"  dance.  Those  were  the  days  of 
waltz  and  two-step;  she  was  accomplished  in  both,  but 
Vernon  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  to  beat  the 
way  she  two-stepped  to  a  Sousa  march — that  trimmed- 
close  way  about  her — figure,  movement,  face,  utterance — 
she  snapped,  like  a  long,  graceful  lash.  Simply,  he  had 
to  meet  her  and  get  a  chance  to  do  it  with  her.  Just 
watching  her  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  marching  to  the 
whip  of  music.  She  wore  some  sheer  black  gown  that 
night — the  sleeves  and  skirt  were  crisply  distended  after 
the  fashion  of  the  nineties — and  there  were  flecks  of 
flame-color,  as  if  her  throat  and  breast  had  caught  fire. 
And  the  way  she  put  a  foot  out,  long  and  pointed  in  its 
slim  black  slipper  (that  was  the  day  when  shoes  were 
worn  two  or  three  sizes  too  long,  in  AA  width,  and  the  toes 
stufl^ed  with  cotton) — it  was  that  curved,  deliberate,  fas- 
tidious movement  with  which  a  tall  bird  steps  forward. 


34   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

By  the  end  of  that  first  two-step  together  it  was  all  up 
with  young  Kent.  He  had  to  marry  the  girl,  that  was  all 
about  it.  He  had  never  failed  to  get  anything  he  wanted 
in  his  twenty-one  years,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  begin  by 
missing  the  most  desirable  thing  yet.  He  had  been  bom 
with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  beautifully  cut,  smiling,  occa- 
sionally petulant  mouth.  He  had  laughed  his  way  through 
life  with  those  rollicking  blue  eyes  that  drew  everything 
to  him;  he  had  played  tennis  and  danced  and  yachted — 
how  the  girls  always  fell  prostrate  before  him  in  his  white 
yachting  togs,  with  those  blaze-blue  eyes  of  his  and  that 
crop  of  yellow  curls  above  the  manly  tan  of  a  skin  far 
darker  than  the  hair,  which  woidd  stay  blond  as  a  boy's ! 
It  had  all  been  so  easy  for  Vernon  Kent.  Things  that 
were  not  easy  he  had  dodged — college,  for  instance.  And 
this  new  matter  was  being  made  easy  for  him,  too — all 
there  was  to  it  was  to  fall  in  love  with  the  girl,  run  down 
every  few  days  to  see  her,  tell  her  you'd  got  to  marry  her 
or  die  in  the  attempt — and  then,  he  assured  himself,  do  it. 

There  was  not  a  reservation  in  her  love.  As  if  with 
wide-flung  arms  she  received  his,  giving  way  utterly  to  the 
rapture  of  it  all.  There  was  that  in  her  fibre,  which  would 
not  let  her  feign  coyness,  half  escape,  vacillate  between 
fleeing  and  yielding,  play  fast  and  loose.  She  was  too 
proud  for  such  pretense ;  it  would  have  been  "silly."  She 
loved  him  with  every  bit  of  herself,  she  dreamed  of  him 
day  and  night  during  every  hour  that  she  was  not  with 
him,  she  could  feel  his  kiss  like  fire  on  her  lips  for  days 
after  they  had  parted — why  feign,  indeed! 

The  very  fervour  of  her  passion  increaeed  his.  Hers  was 
not  the  love  to  cloy  a  man ;  rather,  to  madden  him  on  with 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  35 

its  own  leaping  flame.  He  grew  distracted  until  he  could 
arrange  for  the  marriage.  The  distant  family  had  to  be 
won  over,  Helen  said;  so  he  began,  with  a  facility  which 
in  later  years  bore  more  significance  for  her  than  she  had 
then  comprehended,  by  winning  over  Helen's  California 
cousins.  Enraptured,  they  wrote  her  parents  that  this 
was  the  match  of  a  lifetime — excellent  family,  money, 
simply  delightful  fellow,  and  promisvng!  Although  what 
he  promised  they  did  not  explain.  They  said  among 
themselves  that  he  had  never  doTie  anything  as  yet,  but 
he  was  so  young,  and  even  if  they  had  heard  he'd  been  a 
little  wild,  what  was  the  use  of  writing  that?  Marriage 
would  settle  him  down. 

But  the  New  York  family  closed  its  mouth  like  a  purse- 
snap  and  made  austere  remarks  about  "youth,"  "folly," 
and  "not  knowing  one's  mind."  Wherefore,  to  prove  that 
they  did  know  their  mind,  youth  and  folly,  aged  eighteen 
and  twenty-one,  got  married  anyway,  and  did  without  the 
distant  family's  consent.  Tlie  marriage  took  place  in 
early  summer;  so  there  was  no  pause  in  this  miracle-year 
of  Helen's,  when  her  first  California  spring  and  her  first 
love  had  come  up  the  valley  hand  in  hand,  and  were  lead- 
ing on,  through  weeks  snowed  under  by  cherry-blooms ; 
more  weeks,  lying  heavy  with  roses;  into  the  summer  of 
darkly  gleaming  mystery  that  hung  now  like  a  midnight 
sky. 

The  only  explanation  of  a  nature  as  sceptical  as  Helen 
Clifton's  accepting  love  with  such  complete  abandonment, 
lies  in  the  paradox  that  there  is  no  one  as  credulous  as 
the  doubter  when  once  he  gives  way  to  belief. 


36   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 


Dreaming  weeks  followed  the  wedding — weeks  that 
drugged  the  senses,  steeping  them  in  the  perfume  of  south- 
em  gardens,  the  seductive  plashing  of  southern  waters, 
the  sapphire-black  velvet  of  night  skies,  the  warmth  of 
silky  sands  on  a  lissome  beach,  the  rustle  of  palms  on  a 
moon-frosted  air.  They  drifted  from  Santa  Barbara  to 
San  Diego,  loafing  at  every  point  of  beauty  between. 
Helen  bore  from  all  this  associations  never  to  be  broken — 
for  instance,  the  dull  scent  that  petunias  give  off  in  a  hot 
sun  was  ever  to  bring  back  to  her  the  pacing  of  Padres 
at  Santa  Barbara.  Orange  blossoms  called  up  for  her 
not  a  wedding — she  hadn't  worn  them — ^but  a  certain 
walk  through  a  grove  where  the  heavily  perfumed  flowers 
and  the  fruit,  like  lighted  lanterns  glowing  in  dark 
foliage,  hung  side  by  side.  It  was  in  that  walk  that 
Vernon  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  confidence.     He  said: 

"I've  been  a  bit  of  a  devil  with  women.  I'd  rather  you 
knew.  Seems  squarer.  But  that's  over,  Helen  mine.  Good 
and  over.  It's  one  woman  now  and  ever  after,  you'd  better 
believe." 

She  did  believe.  In  fact,  she  almost  ignored  his  confes- 
sion. It  seemed  not  to  penetrate  the  trance  in  which  she 
was  wrapped.  Afterward  she  remembered  it,  and  the  op- 
pressive sweetness  of  orange  blossoms  was  ironically  bound 
up  with  the  memory  forever. 

Long  after  time  had  erased  all  sense  of  other  con- 
tacts— his  arm  around  her,  the  warm  clasp  of  his  hand, 
his  kiss  on  eyes  and  lips,  his  man's  cheek  that  felt  so 
hard  against  her  own — years  after  these  sensations  had 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  37 

crumbled  to  dust,  she  was  still  to  remember  the  feeling 
of  his  absurd,  irresistible  blond  curls — her  hand  pushing 
them  back,  her  long  fingers  tangled  in  them. 
Nights  upon  nights,  it  seemed  in  memory,  aeons  of  nights, 
eternal  nights.  ...  If  the  baby,  little  Bee,  hadn't 
had  exactly  the  same  tumble  of  gold  atop  her  head^ — 
more  spun-silky  in  texture,  of  course,  more  gleaming,  but 
as  nearly  the  same  as  a  tiny  girl's  and  a  big  man's  could 
possibly  be — Helen  might  have  forgotten  that  contact 
along  with  the  others.  But  Bee's  hair  kept  his  alive. 
Even  now  Helen  was  sometimes  startled  by  that  sensation 
of  her  hands  stroking  and  weaving  through  his  curly 
tangle.  With  it  always  came  the  dull  banging  of  surf 
beyond  a  window,  the  scratch  and  rustle  of  palm  leaves 
like  giant  fans  in  silhouette,  the  gulping  blackness  of 
shadows  that  swallowed  swords  of  moonlight. 
Such  had  been  the  nights.     .     .     . 

The  week  following  that  walk  and  talk,  up  turned  one 
of  the  women  with  whom  he  had  been  a  bit  of  a  devil. 


VI 


Even  yet  Helen  did  not  stir  in  her  trance.  From  her 
hotel  window  one  day  she  saw  him  talking  with  a  dressy 
person  (green  and  white  plaid  silk  frock,  the  person  wore, 
and  hyper-golden  hair)  on  the  palm  walk,  where  he  had 
gone  to  wait  while  Helen  dressed.  When  she  came  down 
he  was  alone.  She  asked  him  lightly  who  the  dressy  per- 
son might  be.    He  hesitated.    Then  he  chose  frankness. 

"I  used  to  see  something  of  her  in  San  Francisco.  But 
I  shook  her.    I  can't  help  it,  Helen,  that  she  happens  to 


38   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

be  here,  and  trapped  me  into  speaking  to  her,  but  for 
heaven's  sake  don't  imagine " 

"Dearest,  I  don't  imagine  anything."  She  laughed 
carelessly ;  so  utterly  had  she  surrendered  to  faith !  "Come 
on  to  the  tennis  court." 

It  lasted  a  year.  A  year  seems,  for  some  obscure  psy- 
chological or  astrological  reason,  to  be  about  the  average 
time  allotted  to  illusions.  Helen's  went  with  a  crash  that 
was  cataclysmic,  when  her  husband  returned  at  five  one 
morning.  He  had  been  growing  more  and  more  irregular, 
but  her  belief  in  Vernon's  excuses  had  been  as  stubborn 
as  her  disbelief  in  God's  acts. 

Hearing  a  cab  at  their  San  Francisco  door,  she  looked 
out  to  discover  a  helplessly  intoxicated  husband  being  as- 
sisted out  by  the  driver,  while  a  hazy  female  voice  back 
in  the  cab  gave  directions. 

"Tha's  right — ^hoisht  him  up  shteps — can  get  in  hi'self. 
I'd  help,  but  daresn't  show  my  fair  face.  Tha's  th-ticket 
— buck  up,  old  boy,  there — there  y'are !  See  you  t-mor- 
row  night." 

It  was  the  end.  Where  another  type  of  woman  would 
have  scolded  and  whimpered  and  pleaded  and  kissed  and 
forgiven  and  begun  all  over  again,  until  a  fresh  outbreak, 
Helen  did  none  of  these  things.  She  didn't  shed  a  tear. 
She  didn't  say  a  word.  She  went  down  and  helped  Vernon 
to  the  library  couch  in  dead  silence,  covered  him  with  an 
afghan,  and  left  him;  then  went  back  to  her  own  room 
and  walked  the  floor  the  rest  of  the  night,  as  white  as 
her  nightdress,  her  lips  drawn  to  a  hard  drab  line,  her 
eyes  burning. 

The  earth  had  caved  under  her  feet.     Such  a  thing  as 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  39 

half -belief,  that  sop  of  diluted  credulity  which  a  weaker 
woman  holds  out  to  her  thirsting  infatuation,  was  impossi- 
ble to  Helen.  It  must  be  all  or  nothing.  She  had  be- 
lieved utterly — wreck  on  the  track  ahead  had  delayed  his 
train,  he  liad  said  once — again,  she  mustn't  expect  him 
the  following  night — ^he  had  to  run  down  to  Burlinghame 
to  see  about  that  piece  of  land  he  was  buying  for  their 
country  house — and  so  on.  And  now  she  credited  not  a 
word  he  uttered. 

The  country  home  never  came  to  pass.  By  the  end 
of  another  married  year,  when  the  baby  was  six  months 
old,  the  break  came  outright.  He  had  "braced  up,"  as 
he  expressed  it,  over  and  over,  but  the  bracings  didn't 
last.  Vernon  Kent  had  never  had  a  fair  chance  in  life, 
as  a  matter  of  fact — he  had  never  been  given  a  start 
by  poverty  or  injustice  or  cramped  environment  or  lack 
of  love.    And  yet  he  did  try. 

"There's  something  good  in  me  after  all,"  he  said  once, 
with  unconscious  pathos,  after  one  of  his  repeated  slips 
into  debauch.     "Save  it,  Helen!" 

"How?"  she  scoffed. 

"By  believing  in  me." 

"Believing !    What  can  I  see  to  beheve  in  ?" 

"That's  just  it.  In  this  world  you've  got  to  keep 
on  believing  in  what  you  don't  see.  It's  the  believing 
makes  it  come  true." 

Probably  he  himself  was  not  fully  aware  of  the  mystic 
depths  lying  beneath  his  own  words;  and  to  Helen  they 
were  sheer  madness.  And  madder  still  she  now  saw  the 
emotion  that  had  bound  her  senses  for  that  period  of 
belief  in  love.     During  it,  she  had  admitted  no  evidence 


40   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

against  him.  But  from  the  hour  of  waking,  she  had 
been  herself,  her  full  self  again — scoffer  at  illusion  and 
delusion,  steeled  sceptic.  The  glamour  of  belief  had 
parted  like  a  mist.     She  saw — clearly,  at  last,  she  said. 

"Now  I  am  as  hard  as  nails !"  she  told  herself,  with 
a  queer  sort  of  bitter  exultation.  *'I  know  all  that  life 
is,  all  that  men  are,  all  that  love  is  not." 

Love,  indeed,  she  paused  to  contemplate. 

^'Romantic  love  and  God !  They're  the  two  prime  self- 
delusions  of  this  world's  fools.  If  there  were  such  a  thing 
as  love,  real  love,  this  would  have  happened,  wouldn't  it  ?" 
she  sneered  to  invisible  listeners.  "And  as  for  a  'loving 
God' — what  he  loves,  apparently,  just  now,  is  watching 
me  writhe!'^ 

Helen  Kent  had  reverted  completely ;  she  was  once  more 
the  caustic  disbeliever.  And  here  was  disbelief  with  the 
addition  of  a  new  immeasurable  bitterness.  The  brief 
period  during  which  she  had  been  swept  away  b}^  a  force 
more  potent  than  any  other  force  in  all  living  creation 
was  over.  AJong  with  God  and  the  orthodox  tenets 
she  now  sent  Love  crashing  down  from  the  pedestal — that 
Love  which  poets  have  immortalized  and  mortals  died  to 
win. 

A  crisis  of  debauch,  involving  drink,  gambling,  and  the 
hyper-blond  person,  brought  even  the  ostensible  union  to 
an  end.  Helen  took  her  baby  and  left  Vernon.  A  lawyer 
urged  her  to  sue  for  divorce,  but  she  scorned  the  idea. 

"What  for.J^  Only  to  throw  tidbits  of  gossip  to  the 
harpies.  We  couldn't  be  any  more  divorced  than  we  are. 
As  for  alimony,  I  wouldn't  touch  a  dollar  of  his !" 

"But  for  your  child's  sake " 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  41 

"I'll  fight  for  my  child,  and  I'll  win,  too!  And  with 
no  help  from  him.  She's  mine.  He's  forfeited  all  right 
to  her.     She  and  I  will  fight  it  out  together." 

Vernon  Kent  entered  no  claim  and  left  the  two  undis- 
turbed. He  might  have  been  dead  for  all  he  meant  to  either 
wife  or  child. 

The  death  of  Helen's  father  and  mother  had  given  her, 
the  only  heir,  a  small  income — ^very  small,  for  the  family 
property  had  turned  out  to  be  in  a  desiccated  condition 
— but  by  careful  management  she  contrived  to  make  out 
until  the  baby  was  old  enough  to  be  left  for  awhile  each 
day  in  another's  care  while  she  went  forth  as  bread-winner. 
She  had  taken  a  pretty  cottage  near  her  university,  and 
at  first  she  coached  a  bit,  but  her  mind  was  riveted  upon 
the  business  world.  Business!  That  was  to  be  her  life. 
The  ambition  grew  into  an  obsession.  Business  meant 
money. 

The  relatives  to  whom  she  wrote  of  this  intention  raised 
horrified  hands.  Helen  could  see  the  hands  as  she  read 
the  letters  with  a  grim  smile.  Business !  they  cried  in 
shocked  clamour.  A  lady — one  of  the  Clif tons !  In  busi- 
ness !  Could  she  not  find  a  ladylike  way  in  which  to  sup- 
port herself  and  child? — fine  embroidery,  or  china  paint- 
ing, or  teaching,  or  even  taking  a  few  paying  guests? 
But  a  business  woman!  Really,  the  Clifton  traditions 
must  be  considered! 

Helen's  smile  passed  from  grim  to  sardonic,  and  she  con- 
signed the  Clifton  traditions  to  a  climate  more  tropical 
than  that  of  California.  "Time  one  of  us  smashed  'em," 
she  observed.  "I'm  going  into  business  because  business 
makes  money.     It's  money  I'm  going  to  have — for  myself 


42        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

and  my  child.  Money,  not  illusions,  will  bring  her  happi- 
ness— nothing  else  will."  And  she  set  her  teeth  like  steel. 
And  meanwhile — in  the  wonder-world  where  sweet-peas 
grew  higher  than  a  big  man's  head,  where  geraniums  and 
fuchsias  clambered  to  the  porch  roof,  where  rose-vines 
choked  the  windows  and  had  to  be  cut  away  like  weeds, 
where  fruit  trees  pelted  you  with  great  red  and  purple 
plums,  coral  cherries,  golden  peaches,  coppery  apricots — 
little  Bee  grew,  and  turned  into  big  Bee. 


VII 


She  grew  like  everything  else  in  California.  She  leaped 
toward  the  sun ;  ran  with  the  wind  flowing  back  from  her 
like  a  garment.  Life  springs,  rushes  here ;  need  not  crawl 
and  struggle  and  strain  into  being.  The  wand  touches, 
and  there  it  is.     There  was  Bee. 

She  had  been  named  for  Helen's  mother,  Rebecca  Clif- 
ton, and  in  the  days  of  blind  bliss  it  had  been  agreed  by 
Vernon  and  Helen  that  the  little  girl  (they  were  bound  it 
was  to  be  a  girl!)  should  not  be  weighted  by  anything  as 
suggestive  of  Puritanism  as  the  English  form  of  this  name. 
In  the  South  they  had  been  charmed  by  a  lady  of  Cas- 
tilian  lineage  bearing  its   Spanish  form — ^Rebequita. 

"A  perfect  compromise!"  Helen  had  cried  when  the 
Castilian  lady's  name  occurred  to  them.  "We'll  make  our 
child  the  California  granddaughter  of  my  puritanical 
mother — Rebeca — Rebequita.  Sounds  a  trifle  shocking, 
like  a  wicked  eye  peeping  through  a  fan  and  a  dagger  iii 
the  dark.    Poor  Mudder — wonder  what  she'll  say .?" 

And  so  this  gold  and  rose  creature  bloomed  under  a 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  43 

name  as  black-eyed  and  fire-brandish  as  old  Spanish  Cali- 
fornia. She  grew  to  laugh  at  the  joke  of  it,  but  Rebe- 
quita  she  remained.  Helen  tousled  the  name  about — 
Rebeca  to-day,  Bequita  to-morrow,  always,  to  everyone, 
little  Bee. 

She  rushed  on,  from  babyhood  to  childhood,  to  girlhood, 
growing  tall  and  strong  and  always  lithe,  always  imbued 
with  that  instinctive  grace  of  movement  which  made  danc- 
ing in  her  a  natural  form  of  expression.  She  danced  her 
feelings,  her  thoughts,  as  some  children  tell  them  to  their 
dolls,  as  others  sing  them.  Some  called  her  beautiful,  others 
disagreed ;  certainly  the  face  fell  far  short  of  perfection ; 
but  her  remarkable  grace  no  one  denied.  Indeed,  Helen 
often  thought  that  the  one  thing  she  embodied  was  mo- 
tion ;  she  was  never  still,  always  hastening  on,  flying  for- 
ward, swaying  about,  the  pliant  body  seeming  one  with 
the  eager  mind.  She  darted,  like  light;  she  quivered,  like 
water;  she  swayed,  like  trees;  she  floated,  like  clouds; 
she  ran,  like  wind.  There  was  a  strange  underlying  truth 
in  all  these  comparisons,  profounder,  infinitely  profounder 
than  the  mere  pretty  poesy  of  them.  In  some  almost  mys- 
tic way  this  young  life  seemed  a  part,  the  very  offspring 
of  elemental  forces,  of  the  great  free  womb  of  California. 
Helen  Kent  watched  it,  with  a  love  that  was  feline  in 
its  pride  and  its  fierce  protectiveness.  And,  watching 
it,  she  formulated  her  resolve. 

"She's  to  have  the  best  there  is  for  a  girl,  if  I  have 
to  hold  up  Life  and  take  it  for  her  at  the  muzzle  of  a 
revolver.  She's  to  have  clothes,  and  fun,  and  luxuries, 
and  beaux,  and  money  to  play  with,  and  no  man  in  her 
life  to  wreck  it.     Oh,  it's  a  pretty  enough  little  game,  is 


44   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

living,  once  you  get  the  hang  of  it,  and  know  it  to  be  just 
that  and  nothing  more.  Trouble  begins  when  you  start 
chasing  illusions.  Men  are  all  very  well  in  business  rela- 
tions and  friendship;  but  no  love-nonsense,  no  marriage, 
no  illusions  of  any  kind  for  Bequita." 

It  was  the  regimen  that  was  to  control  her  child's  mental 
and  moral  diet ;  that  regimen  being  the  outcome  of  innate 
scepticism  augmented  by  years  of  brooding  over  her  own 
life's  disappointment.  In  her  embitterment,  Helen  Kent 
was  reasoning  from  the  particular  to  the  general ;  because 
love  had  failed  her,  therefore  love  was  a  failure.  Un- 
checked, her  morbid  outlook  upon  this  phase  of  life  had 
grown  with  the  years ;  it  had  become  an  obsession,  distort- 
ing her  vision,  dominating  her  doctrines.  Masterful  by 
nature,  she  set  out  from  the  first  to  implant  her  abnormal 
views,  like  strange  poisonous  growths  in  the  child  mind. 

Bee  was  taught,  therefore,  all  about  that  gigantic 
fraud  called  love.  Thus,  armed  to  the  teeth  with  warn* 
ings,  she  remained  fancy-free.  She  laughed  at  her  lovers 
— at  Robert,  most  of  all,  when  he  recited  to  her  the 
beginning  of  his  poem: 

"How  fair  thy  golden  locks  do  shine. 

Like  snares  to  lure  me  on. 

How  ruby  are  thy  lips  like  wine 

My  eyes  do  feast  upon." 

"I  didn't  mean  anything — anything  familiar  about  your 
lips,  Rebequita,"  he  explained,  crimson.  "Of  course  I — I 
wouldn't  think  of — of — unless  you  let  me.  And  of  course 
our  family  are  strictly  temperance,  anyway."  He  was 
overwhelmed  with  embarrassment  at  this  juncture.  "Only 
it's  so  hard  to  find  rhymes !"  he  admitted.     "I'm  hunting 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  46 

now  for  one  for  'Bequita,'  and  all  I  can  find  is  'mosquito.' 
I'm  afraid  it'll  have  to  do.  I'll  recite  the  rest  to  you 
when  it's  done." 

Bee  shouted  in  heartless  glee,  and  told  Helen.  And 
the  others — Tomas,  that  scion  of  an  old  Castilian  family ; 
good,  honest  Stephen,  a  man  at  twenty,  who  loved  her 
too  deeply  to  be  quite  laughed  at;  jolly  Dennis  Ellery, 
and  Van  Payne — "Fudge!"  was  her  brief  summary  of 
their  emotions.  She  was  completely  frank  about  them  all, 
and  obviously  untouched.  Helen  nestled  in  her  own  secret 
security. 

As  for  the  other  fraud — that  preposterous  Santa  Claus 
called  "God" — Bee  had  been  taught  from  the  beginning 
the  absurdity  of  that  delusion.  She  grew  up  looking 
upon  church-goers  as  a  bigger  child  looks  upon  those 
who  still  listen  for  reindeer  bells,  chuckling  gleefully  at 
their  "funny  ideas."  And  was  evidence  lacking  to  con- 
firm this  atheism?  For  Bee  had  been  only  a  child  when 
told  in  full  of  her  mother's  experiences. 

She  thought  of  her  father  with  horror,  as  the  creature 
who  once  had  made  her  darling  Helen  so  frightfully  un- 
happy. 

"But,  dearest,  I'm  here  now!"  she  would  cry  with  an 
enfolding  rush, 

"Yes,  you're  here,  and  I've  weathered  it.  But  my 
daughter  shan't  go  through  what  I  did!  Never!  When 
some  handsome  loafer  comes  along  and  swears  that  you 
are  the  one  star  in  his  heaven,  you'U  inform  him  that 
the  stars  are  not  to  be  plucked.  Think  of  it.  Bee !"  She 
would  break  off  from  her  cynical  lightness  to  drive  home 


46   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

facts.  "The  man  who  swore  undying  love  for  me  lay 
in  a  drunken  heap  before  me  a  year  after  our  marriage, 
while  the  woman — also  drunk — with  whom  he  had  spent 
the  night  drove  away  from  my  door  to  await  the  next 
night's  meeting!" 

So  she  stripped  the  canvas  of  its  last  veil,  and  left  the 
picture  naked  for  young  eyes  to  see.  It  was  an  ugly 
picture.  Bee  would  shudder.  And  Helen  would  point 
Out  baldly  every  detail.  For  the  girl's  own  sake,  there 
must  be  no  sparing  her  knowledge.  She  was  to  know  life ; 
was  to  visualize  it  at  its  bitterest ;  was  to  be  on  her  guard 
for  every  pitfall. 

When  Bee  was  fifteen,  she  read  a  newspaper  item  to  the 
effect  that  Vernon  C.  R.  Kent,  formerly  of  San  Francisco, 
had  been  killed  in  a  drunken  fight  with  an  Indian  in  north- 
ern Idaho. 

She  carried  it  to  her  mother.  To  her  surprise,  Helen 
went  white,  and  the  paper  rustled  with  the  quiver  of  her 
hand. 

"Look  at  thatr*  In  steely  detachment  Helen  indicated 
her  hand.  "Nerves.  They  never  get  over  such  experi- 
ences. More  fools  they."  The  last  bond  was  severed, 
then.  In  due  time  Helen  received  notice  of  the  death  from 
Vernon's  relatives,  with  the  not  surprising  statement  that 
he  had  died  penniless. 

Helen  was  now  a  trim  commuter,  going  to  business  in 
San  Francisco  each  day,  earning  a  good  salary  in  a  re- 
sponsible secretarial  position,  and  she  had  long  been  see- 
ing farther.  When  Bee  was  eighteen,  she  laid  definite 
plans  for  moving  to  New  York. 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  47 

"It*s  a  broader  world  there.  It's  the  best  our  country 
offers.  The  body  ^ows  out  here — ^but  your  body  had  bet- 
ter not  grow  any  more,"  she  laughed.  "The  East  offers  an 
intensive  training  one  can't  get  here.  The  East  is  to 
the  West  what  Europe  is  to  America.  There*s  a  sharper 
edge  put  on  the  tool,  a  finer  tempering." 

Helen  herself  had  never  lost  that  finer  tempering,  had 
always  been  recognized  as  an  "Easterner."  And  it  glinted, 
in  a  way,  too,  through  Bee's  more  abounding  physical- 
ness — by  heritage,  perhaps,  or  by  home  contact. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  in  New  York?"  Bee  asked 
one  day. 

"Do,  child.?  Have  fun,  of  course.  Which  involves  get- 
ting rich.  That's  what  counts.  I'm  going  into  business 
of  some  sort.  Big  business.  I've  outgrown  this  work 
in  San  Francisco.  My  brain  is  an  uncommonly  able 
organ."  Helen  was  as  detached  in  regarding  her  brain 
as  if  passing  on  the  merits  of  an  employe.  "I  shall  estab- 
lish myself,  and  later  on  draw  you  in  with  me.  You'll 
have  to  begin  by  learning  the  drudgery  of  office  life  as 
a  man  does — thorough  grounding.  I  shall  put  you  in  a 
first-class  private  business  school.  That  will  bore  you, 
but  it  won't  last  long.  And  then  you  can  start  with 
me  on  your  life  work." 

Bee's  eyes  wandered  to  distances  of  their  own.  Helen 
noted  the  fact  sharply. 

"Couldn't — couldn't  I  study  dancing?'*  Bequita's  voice 
was  both  timid  and  wistful.  "Dancing  is  so  wonderful," 
she  went  on.  "The  finest  kind,  that  is.  Like  sculpture, 
and  music " 


48   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Helen  rounded  the  girl's  words  up  with  one  lash  of  her 
eyes,  drove  them  into  a  corral  where  they  cowered. 
"We've  thrashed  that  out  before,"  she  replied.  "And 
settled  it." 

So,  indeed,  they  had,  and  always  to  the  same  end.  Helen 
would  listen  to  no  suggestion  of  a  dancer's  career.  Danc- 
ing now  and  then  for  play  was  all  very  well — she  encour- 
aged it,  in  fact — but  an  artist's  life!  "Not  practical," 
was  the  reason  she  gave  Bee ;  that  was  enough  for  the  girl 
to  know.     Her  profounder  reason  was  her  own  affair. 

And  so,  outwardly  at  least,  the  matter  was  dropped  for 
the  time.  When  Bee  was  nineteen  the  move  to  New  York 
was  accomplished.  Volatile  youth  and  the  excitement  of 
the  change  swept  her  up,  she  fell  in  with  Helen's  plans. 
Like  lads  conspiring  to  adventure,  the  two  set  forth. 

"Oh,  it's  all  so  wonderful,  Helen  mine!"  Bequita  cried 
day  and  night.  She  cried  it  from  the  bottom  of  a  trunk, 
over  the  edge  of  which  she  doubled  like  a  long  hairpin, 
or  from  high  in  a  closet  where  she  rummaged,  or  from 
her  bed  after  sleep  time  should  have  begun. 

"It's  as  if  you  had  rubbed  a  lamp,  darling,  and  made 
things  come  true!  To  think  that  we're  going — really, 
truly,  almost   starting!" 

"Almost  starting,"  Helen  smiled. 

"Dearest,  we're  going  to  be  rich  as  Mrs.  and  Miss  Croe- 
sus, and  ride  and  buy  clothes  and  have  fun — and  we're 
going  to  find,  life,  aren't  we,  Helen  mine?"  with  an  exorbi- 
tant embrace. 

And  the  green  slopes  that  had  given  tenderly  to  her 
romping  baby  feet,  the  Pacific  that  had  swung  her  girl- 


CALIFORNIA  DAYS  49 

hood  on  its  wide  breast,  the  flowers  that  had  flung  them- 
selves, myriads,  lavish,  to  her  plucking,  the  fruits  and 
trees  and  winds  and  sunlight  of  her  great  mother-world, 
California,  held  silence  while  she  turned  from  them  and 
hurried  away,  arms  open,  to  find  "life." 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  FIRST  REBELLION 


THE  doorbell  snapped  the  long  string  of  Helen's 
reverie  that  afternoon,  and  the  varied  beads  of  it 
rolled  away.    She  rose,  waiting,  while  Anna  shuf- 
fled down  the  apartment's  long  hall  to  answer  the  bell. 

Helen  thought :  "I  must  teach  that  girl  to  walk.  She 
sounds  like  a  sack  of  potatoes  Being  rolled  to  the  door. 
Never  mind — soon  I  shan't  have  to  keep  a  cheap  maid." 
Her  love  for  the  finished,  the  perfect,  made  of  Anna  a 
thorn  in  the  flesh. 

"Mr.  McNab!"  she  exclaimed,  as  Anna  ushered  in  a 
brisk,  short,  and  rotund  gentleman  of  thirty-five.  He 
was  essentially  the  man  of  the  business  world,  living  up 
to  the  code  that  preaches  *'Look  prosperity."  He  car- 
ried himself  with  that  defiant  erectness  assumed  by  some 
short  men,  as  though  they  perpetually  demanded,  "Who's 
that  said  'Sawed-Off?"  Upright  he  bore  one  of  those 
long,  vaguely-shaped  tissue  parcels  that  a  woman  always 
detects  as  flowers. 

"You're  the  person  I've  tned  to  get  on  the  telephone 
four  times  to-day !"  she  told  him. 

"Good  enough!"     Mr.  McNab  evidently  found  great 

50 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  61 

satisfaction  in  the  fact.  "Sorry  I  was  out.  But  mighty 
glad  you  were  after  me.    Hope  it  means  my  good  luck?" 

"That's  for  time  to  prove.  But  it  does  mean  that 
I've  decided  to  accept  the  position,  and  I'll  start  in  as 
soon  as  you  wish." 

"Good  e-nough!'*  the  gentleman  repeated  with  fervor. 
"That's  the  ticket!  If  I'd  known  you'd  already  given 
in,  I  needn't  have  wasted  perfectly  good  flowers,  eh,  what  ?" 
And  he  presented  the  tissue  parcel. 

They  laughed  together,  in  excellent  good-fellowship. 
"Daffodils!"  Helen  cried,  as  she  unwrapped  them.  "The 
first  I've  seen !  Thank  my  luck  I  missed  you  on  the  tele- 
phone!" She  held  up  the  flowers  with  a  very  keen  de- 
light. Life  had  been  rather  sparing  toward  her  of  late 
years.  She  made  McNab  c6mfortable  in  an  easy  chair 
and  went  for  a  vase. 

"Now  we  can  talk.'*  She  settled  down  at  last,  oppo- 
site him. 

"We  sure  can."  He  extended  his  trim  shoes  a  trifle 
by  way  of  ease,  and  revealed  a  gleam  of  silk  hosiery  as 
he  gave  each  knee  a  pluck.  In  the  same  glance  that 
showed  him  his  own  well-clad  feet,  he  took  in  Helen's ;  with 
that  swift  appraisement  of  material  values  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  commercial  world,  he  silently  approved 
the  quality  of  her  black  silk  and  dull  kid.  "Show  me 
a  woman's  feet  well  dressed,  and  I'll  take  the  rest  of 
her  dressing  on  trust,"  was  one  of  his  maxims. 

"Now  then,"  he  went  on,  lighting  the  cigarette  she 
gave  him,  **to  business!  Fm  to  understand,  am  I,  that 
you  agree  to  our  proposition?  In  other  words  the  Mon- 
roe Mutual  Life  Insurance  Company,  one  of  the  greatest 


52   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

in  the  United  States,  creates  a  job  for  you — ^just  accord- 
ing to  your  scheme^ — ^installs  a  women's  department,  con- 
trary to  its  fixed  ideas — upsets  the  whole  business,  just 
to  let  you  experiment,  and  make  ducks  and  drakes  of 
as  many  thousands  as  you  can  get  away  with — and  at 
last,  after  mature  deliberation,  you  condescend  to  ac- 
cept this  arrangement?" 

"I  condescend.  And  also,  remember,  I  am  offered,  for 
the  present,  only  a  very  modest  salary!  Until  I  make 
good."     Friendly  understanding  smiled  between  them. 

"Well,  we'll  risk  it,  anyway!  We  sure  will  see  some- 
thing doing."  In  an  excess  of  satisfaction  he  fell  to,  lay- 
ing plans. 


When  Bee  burst  in,  the  two  were  so  deep  in  these  plans 
that  they  did  not  hear  her  impatient  burring  of  the 
doorbell,  her  rush  down  the  haU. 

"Helen,  feel  my  cheek !  The  weather's  gloriously  cold !" 
She  had  flown  to  her  mother  with  one  brilliant  cheek 
proffered  as  testimony  to  the  weather  before  she  realized 
another  presence. 

"Oh !"  she  cried  on  the  instant  that  her  own  rose  cheek 
and  Helen's  olive-white  one  came  in  contact.  She  was 
giving  a  vigorous  rub,  with  the  energy  of  a  young  colt; 
she  stopped  with  embarrassed  abruptness.  "Oh!"  she 
repeated.  But  her  disturbed  "Ohs !"  were  less  at  the  fact 
that  a  stranger  had  surprised  her  than  at  the  extremely 
frank  and  admiring  gaze  of  that  same  stranger. 

"This  is  Mr.  McNab,  Bee — you  know  all  about  him. 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  53 

My  daughter,  Mr.  McNab.  She's  a  foolish  creature, 
who  doesn't  know  how  to  do  anything  but  dance.  It 
never  occurs  to  her  that  bread  and  butter  is  needed,  while 
she  devotes  herself  to  the  jam  of  life.  In  short,  she's 
a  mere  trifle,"  Helen  concluded,  with  her  usual  incongru- 
ous look  of  fatuity  and  cynicism  resting  upon  her  off- 
spring. 

''Some  trifle  all  the  same,  eh,  what?"  approved  Mr. 
McNab.  With  difliculty  and  a  sigh  he  removed  his  gaze 
at  last,  preparatory  to  returning  to  business. 

"Bee,  Mr.  McNab  and  I  have  been  making  our  final 
arrangements  for  me  to  enter  upon  my  career.  I'm  to 
go  to  work  next  Monday.     How  will  you  like  that?" 

The  gold  and  rose  trifle — a  very  sizable  trifle,  for- 
sooth, the  gentleman  must  have  thought! — ^was  evidently 
in  full  cognisance  of  the  plan,  whether  or  not  she  held 
the  correct  valuation  of  bread  and  butter.  She  shone 
upon  the  news.  "It's  all  so  exciting,  isn't  it,  Helen?  I'll 
miss  you,  of  course,  dear — away  all  day — ^but  I'm  so 
busy  now,  too.  We're  sort  of  partners,  you  see,  more 
like  sisters,'*  she  explained  soberly  to  Mr.  McNab.  "We 
came  to  New  York  to  seek  our  fortune  together,  you  know 
— I  suppose  Helen  has  told  you.  She's  more  practical 
than  I  am,  but  we're  hoping  I'll  come  to  it  in  time.  She 
wants  to  be  connected  with  some  great  business  like 
3^ours,  some  very  big  field,  where  she  can  deal  with  hun- 
dreds of  people  and  feel  herself  a  part  of  progress.  Won't 
that  be  glorious?  Then,  when  I'm  ready  for  it,  she's  to 
draw  me  in  with  her.  I'm  beginning  at  the  bottom  now 
— taking  lessons  in  shorthand  and  typing,  so  that  I'll 
have  a  solid  foundation — and  some  day  we're  to  be  great 


54   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

women  of  the  business  world,  and  frightfully  wealthy.  I 
think  it's  a  splendid  idea,  only  I'm  so  stupid  at  Pitman. 
Somehow  I  don't  seem  to  be  made  that  way." 

"What  way  are  you  made.?"  inquired  Mr.  McNab  with 
lively  interest. 

Bee  had  thrown  off  her  wraps  and  seated  herself  be- 
tween the  two,  completing  an  intimate  circle.  "What  way 
am  I  made?'*  she  pondered  aloud.  "Of  very  flimsy  ma- 
terial, I'm  afraid,  according  to  Helen.  She  laughs  at 
me  when  she  catches  me  reading  poetry.  How  do  you 
feel  about  poetry,  Mr.  McNab?"  she  appealed  with  dis- 
concerting suddenness. 

Mr.  McNab  looked  troubled.  "You've  got  me,"  he  con- 
fessed. "Might  as  well  ask  me  how  I  feel  about  the 
Pyramids  of  Egypt.  I  don't  suppose  I've  read  a  poem 
through  since  I  went  to  school,  and  the  teacher  made  me 
learn  'selections' 

"  'Cannon  to  right  of  tl^m. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

VoUey'd  and  thimder'dl'" 

he  bellowed,  and  thumped  his  projected  chest  with  a  pudgy 
hand  in  reminiscence,  while  the  ladies  laughed  apprecia- 
tively. 

"But  it  strikes  me,"  he  went  on,  and  a  surprising  soft- 
ness, almost  a  musing  look,  passed  over  his  alert  counte- 
nance, "that  poetry's  sort  of  like  religion,  and  a  man's 
mother,  and  the  pies  she  knows  how  to  make:  we're  too 
darned  busy  to  see  much  of  'em,  but  it  makes  us  feel 
good  to  know  they're  there." 

"Halt !    Halt !    I  allow  no  one  to  break  into  my  methods 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  55 

of  training!"  Helen  protested,  with  gay  violence.  She 
felt  a  secret  surprise  at  this  note  struck  by  a  hard- 
headed  business  man. 

"Now  look  here.  I  constitute  myself  a  committee  of 
one  for  the  Protection  of  Young  Ladies  That  Want  to 
Read  Poetry.  You  call  on  me  whenever  you  want  help, 
Miss — ^Miss — ^Bec." 

Bee  rippled  with  delighted  laughter.  "Oh,  thank  you ! 
And  I'm  to  report  to  the  committee  every  time  she  laughs 
at  me?" 

"Every  time.     She'U  be  fined,  too." 

"Good!  I'm  going  to  begin  now,  and  read  a  dozen 
sonnets  all  at  once,  under  the  protection  of  that  threat !" 
She  snatched  a  volume  of  Rossetti,  another  of  Keats, 
tucked  one  under  each  arm,  and  retired  to  a  comer,  while 
laughter  followed  her  and  the  play  broke  up. 

How  exciting  it  all  was!  This  new  life,  so  intensive 
where  the  California  country  life  had  been  so  spreading! 
So  full  of  quick  play  and  stimulus,  so  teeming  with  new 
persons,  new  situations!  What  fun  to  toss  balls  with 
this  handsome  young  sister-mother  and  the  new  friends 
they  were  already  finding !  She  liked  this  lively,  frank  Mr. 
McNab — he  was  so  jolly  and  honest,  he  had  so  much 
"pep,"  and  he  didn't  treat  her  as  a  "kidlet!" 

Bequita,  tingling  with  the  game,  was  only  pretending 
to  read  the  poems  while  her  mother  and  Mr.  McNab  talked 
on,  seriously  now.  They  were  once  more  engrossed  in 
business.  Bee's  mind  and  eyes  roamed — ^to  Helenas  long, 
talkative  hands,  to  the  little  fat,  immaculate  ones  of  Mr. 
McNab,  then  passed  on — the  daffodils  caught  them 


56   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"What  beauties !  Did  you  bring  them  to  my  mother, 
Mr.  McNab?" 

"I  did.    I  hadn't  met  her  daughter  then.*' 

"I'm  so  glad!"  Bee  was  very  earnest,  **You  see,  I'm 
likely  to  have  more  flowers  than  Helen,  so  it's  nice  these 
came  to  her." 

"Don't  be  too  sure."  Mr.  McNab  tacked  the  other 
way  now,  with  quick  diplomacy.  "Your  mother  may  de- 
cide not  to  hand  over  the  trophy  to  you,  and  if  she  makes 
up  her  mind  on  any  point,  look  out,  I  say !" 

Bee  caught  the  ball  and  tossed  it  back.  "Of  course 
I  know  I  can  only  win  by  default,  but  if  my  opponent 
chooses  to  default,  I  have  a  right  to  the  prize,  haven't  I?" 
Her  blue  eyes  sparkled  black ;  her  own  words  excited  her, 
they  sounded  to  her  like  the  tilings  people  say  on  the 
stage,  or  in  a  book.  How  the  cards  were  beginning  to 
flick  and  snap  upon  the  table  of  this  new  life ! 

She  crossed  to  the  mantel  and  stood  examining  the 
flowers  with  intent  interest,  pulling  one  from  the  vase, 
holding  it  with  her  head  cocked,  her  eyes  narrowed,  while 
she  scrutinised  blossom  and  stem.  The  yellow  petals 
brushed  against  her  yellow  hair  as  she  reached  up  to 
the  vase;  instead  of  paling  it  by  their  more  emphatic 
color,  they  contrived  to  enhance  it,  discovering  the  greater 
delicacy  and  finer  texture  of  its  gold. 

Mr.  McNab  watched  her,  then  cast  a  glance  of  fervent 
summary  at  Helen.  He  lowered  his  voice  discreetly — so 
discreetly  that  she  could  not  hear  all  he  said,  but  one 
metaphor,  no  less  than  reverent  in  its  utterance,  reached 
her  ears : 

"Some  peach !" 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  57 


m 


The  two  busy  schemers,  once  more  lost  to  outside  mat- 
ters, had  not  noticed  that  Bee  had  carried  the  daffodils 
into  the  adjoining  room,  her  brow  knitted  while  she  stud- 
ied the  flowers,  quite  as  preoccupied  as  they.  An  out- 
burst roused  them. 

"Helen,  dear !  I^m  sorry  to  interrupt,  but  if  you'll  only 
play  for  me  a  few  minutes !  Just  one  little  air !  Please, 
darling,  and  I'll  dance  a  daffodil!" 

Bee  stood  in  the  doorway  between  the  rooms,  the  flow- 
ers in  her  hand,  and  around  her  was  swathed  the  yellow 
stuff,  yards  of  the  warranted-not-to-fade  fabric  destined 
for  curtains. 

"I've  been  trying  my  neck  in  the  mirror,  and  I've  got 
it  at  last !  Hurry,  dear,  do — ^I  must  see  if  it  dances-out ! 
Some  little  polka  will  be  best — daffodils  are  a  polka,  don't 
you  think  so,  Mr.  McNabi'"  she  appealed  in  desperate 
earnestness. 

Helen  glanced  at  that  gentleman,  who  was  evidently 
overcome  with  delight  but  too  puzzled  to  reply.  She 
laughed. 

"It's  only  one  of  her  whims — she  *dances-out'  every- 
thing that  appeals  to  her,  as  some  *act-out'  their  ideas. 
You'll  see."  She  went  to  the  piano,  ran  over  some  music 
hurriedly,  and  tried  a  light  polka. 

"Yes — that's  exactly  what  I  want!"  Bee's  eagerness 
tugged.  "It  tosses,  that  quick  way  that  daffodils  do  out- 
doors. ^ 

"*Teii  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance.' 


58   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Yes— the  music's  just  right — go  on,  dear.     Now! '* 

Forth  from  the  doorway  she  burst,  her  yellow  draperies 
thrown  out  with  one  fling  as  if  a  sharp  breeze  had  picked 
them  up.  There  through  the  little  rooms  she  nodded, 
she  flickered,  she  sprang,  she  alighted.  A  prance — then 
arrest,  and  a  long,  supple  bending,  a  bending  like  that 
of  a  stem  pressed  almost  to  the  breaking  point  by  a 
ruthless  wind — helpless  instants  in  which  the  lithe  body 
seemed  all  but  prostrate.  ...  A  sudden  up-spring,  a 
toss  again,  a  nod,  a  fling,  and  the  dance  ran  mad  once 
more. 

McNab,  who  had  hurriedly  scuttled  piece  after  piece  of 
furniture  back  out  of  the  way,  and  had  even  crept  into 
the  next  room,  hugging  the  wall  like  a  cat,  until  he  could 
reach  the  dining-table  and  roll  that  into  a  comer,  now 
stood  back  in  dumb  admiration.  His  dumbness  broke 
at  last  in  two  muffled  words  of  awe: 

"By  George!" 

Helen's  amused  eyes  shot  over  her  shoulder  while  she 
played,  watching  both  dancer  and  spectator.  McNab  ap- 
proached the  piano. 

"Saj'^j  but  look  at  the  way  she  handles  her  neck!"  he 
whispered. 

Helen  turned  further  about,  while  her  hands  played  on. 
Yes,  used  as  she  was  to  Bee,  she  knew  this  to  be  wonder- 
ful— the  girl  had  caught  that  abrupt  forward  tilt  of  the 
flower's  head,  and  all  the  while  she  danced  the  poise  of 
her  head  carried  the  suggestion  of  the  dafi^odil's  posture 
in  a  way  that  was  subtle  to  a  degree. 

"By  George,  how  does  she  do  it?     She  looks  like  it 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  69 

and  she  moves  like  it!'*  he  marvelled.  "Never  saw  any- 
thing to  beat  it !" 

The  last  ray  from  the  sun  darted  in  at  the  window, 
caught  up  the  yellow  of  Bee's  hair,  of  her  draperies,  of 
the  flowers  in  her  hand — tossed  them  into  every  shadow 
of  the  room — then  vanished,  and  dusk  descended.  The 
merry  tune  broke  up,  the  dance  fell  as  if  she  had  been 
a  flower  from  which  the  gay  breeze  had  suddenly  de- 
parted.   Breathless,  she  panted  up  to  her  mother: 

"You  were  a  sport  about  the  curtain  stuffs,  darling. 
I  didn't  hurt  it  so  very  much.     Was  I  a  daffodil.'^'* 

"You  were,"  Helen  smilingly  approved. 

"Well,  I  guess  yes,"  McNab  sighed  heavily.  So  deeply 
moved  by  admiration  was  he  that  solemnity  reigned  upon 
his  usually  cheerful  countenance. 

Solemnity  gave  way  at  last,  however,  to  the  McNab 
instinct  within  him.  (His  father,  he  had  told  Helen,  had 
begun  with  a  tobacco  shop  so  poor  that  it  had  waited 
three  years  before  it  could  buy  its  Indian — and  now  look 
at  Charles  Mack  McNab!) 

"Well,"  he  began  on  the  brisk  note  of  enterprise,  "what 
about  it? — this  dancing  proposition.  How  are  you  go- 
ing to  cash  it  in?" 

Bee  had  thrown  aside  the  tangled  yards  of  curtaining, 
and  was  seated  between  the  others  again,  flushed,  and  flap- 
ping herself  with  her  handkerchief.  The  flapping  stopped 
suddenly,  and  she  gazed  at  McNab  in  vague  bewilder- 
ment. 

"I — I  don't  know.     Cash — '*  she  murmured. 

Helen  picked  up  the  question  crisply.  "This  *danc- 
ing  proposition' — nonsense !    We're  all  for  business  in  this 


60        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

establishment,  mj  friend.  This  dancing  is  play,  nothing 
more.  No  life  of  art  here!"  Her  eyes  met  his  on  the 
defensive,  saying  to  them,  "Dangerous  suggestions  strictly 
forbidden  on  these  premises,  sir !" 

He  pursed  his  lips  reflectively.  "I  don't  know,"  he 
demurred.  "Nothing  the  matter  with  art  if  it  repre- 
sents an  A-number-one  cash  value,  is  there?  Dancing's 
one  of  the  best  selling  lines  in  the  country  just  now.  And 
a  high  class  article,  too.  Of  course,  I^m  not  considering 
the  line  they've  showed  us  for  years  in  the  restaurants: 
every  kind  of  animal  and  fowl  trot,  and  all  that.  I  mean 
this  strictly  refined  and  exclusive  sort  of  thing  they  call 
'interpretative'  and  'esthetic'  I  don't  understand  it  very 
well,  but  I  know  they  take  some  highbrow  piece  of  music, 
and  go  waving  around  to  show  you  what  the  music  means 
— ^you  don't  always  know  so  much  more  about  it  when  the 
show's  over,  but  it's  good-looking,  all  right.  Strikes  me 
I'd  think  twice  before  I  let  that  kind  of  goods" — the  ges- 
ture of  his  chubby  hand  supposedly  indicated  Bee's  tal- 
ent— "lie  on  the  shelf  while  the  demand  exceeds  the  sup- 

ply-" 

But  Helen  tightened  her  lips.  "No  art  in  this  part- 
nership!" she  declared  with  asperity.  "It's  all  the  same 
— music,  painting,  sculpture,  dancing — they're  well 
enough  for  pastime,  but  once  they  absorb  the  life  they 
become  corrosives."  A  shadow  of  bitter  passion  crossed 
her  words  as  she  drove  on.  "I've  been  at  pains  for  nearly 
twenty  years  to  produce  as  finely  tempered  a  bit  of  metal 
as  was  possible,  and  I'm  not  going  to  have  its  hardness 
and  its  brightness  eaten  into  by  art !" 

McNab  regarded  her  with  narrowed  eyes  of  scrutiny. 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  61 

but  shrugged  with  an  air  of  "It's  your  affair."  He  turned 
to  Bee.  She  had  been  following  the  conversation  with 
widening  eyes  and  parting  lips;  now  she  met  his  glance 
with  a  breathless,  half-afraid  question: 

"Oh,  do  you  really,  really  believe,  Mr.  McNab         '' 
"Nofirsernser*     Helen's  voice  clipped  off  the  question 
with  its  flashing  scissors.     And  the  discussion  ended. 

Mr.  McNab  departed  soon  after.  "All  the  same,"  he 
remarked  in  an  undertone  to  Helen,  "you're  closing  down 
a  gold-mine  that's  ready  for  operating  on  a  big  scale,  in 
my  opinion."  He  shook  hands  cordially.  "See  you  Mon- 
day— and  here's  luck  to  us !" 


IV 


"Isn't  Mr.  McNab  great  fun?"  Bee  cried  as  she  and 
Helen  were  making  ready  for  bed. 

"Time  for  you  to  quiet  down  for  the  night." 

"I  don't  feel  like  quieting  down.  It's  all  so  exciting. 
When  he  comes  to  dinner  some  day  we  must  have  char- 
lotte russe.  Fat  people  always  like  charlotte  russe — 
maybe  that's  why  they're  fat — anyway,  I've  noticed  it. 
.    .    ."    She  paused;  her  thoughts  wandered  and  sobered. 

"Helen,"  she  began  after  awhile,  "he's  a  practical  busi- 
ness man,  isn't  he?" 

"Certainly.     Why?" 

"He  didn't  think  my  dancing  all  foolishness!" 

"Well  it  is,  whatever  he  thinks."  Helen  compressed 
her  lips  and  closed  the  topic.  When  she  did  that,  no 
use  trying  to  discuss  further!     Bee  flitted  off. 

Her  Japanese  dressing-go ^vn  was  adorned  with  wide 


62   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

storks  embroidered  upon  its  heaven-blue;  as  she  spread 
her  wing-sleeved  arms  in  flight  down  the  hall,  it  seemed 
that  the  very  birds  themselves  gave  a  flap  of  sympathetic 
glee.  "It's  all  such  fun!"  they  might  have  been  echo- 
ing her  cry. 

She  continued  to  roam  at  large  in  the  dressing-gown, 
with  that  freedom  which  women  occupying  a  manless 
dwelling  ever  enjoy.  But  eventually  she  "quieted  down." 
So  quiet  did  she  become,  in  fact,  that  Helen  went  to  look 
for  her. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  here  in  the  dark,  child  ? 
You'll  take  cold." 

The  living-room  lights  were  out,  its  radiator  turned 
off ;  a  ghost  against  the  west  window,  Bequita  stood  look- 
ing out  where  the  Hudson  gave  off  the  moon's  radiance 
from  its  fluted  surface.  Ice-clear,  the  night  sparkled  in 
cold  beauty. 

She  stood  without  turning,  and  made  no  answer. 

"Come  on,  you  moon-struck  goosey!" 

Bee  turned  at  length,  slowly.  "It's  so  beautiful,"  she 
sighed,  "I  can't  bear  to  leave  it."  Her  voice  was  soft 
now  with  fatigue ;  the  excitement  of  the  evening  had  passed 
like  a  wind  and  left  her  drooping. 

**I  was  just  wishing — "  she  began  on  a  wistful  note, 
and  broke  off. 

"Wishing  what.?  What  more  do  you  want,  my  dear.^ 
Here  we  are,  twin  Lochinvars  come  out  of  the  West, 
with  brilliant  prospects  shining  ahead." 

Helen  dropped  into  earnestness.  "This  is  the  most 
important  opening  I've  found.  Bee ;  the  salary  isn't  large 
at  present,  but  the  outlook  is  tremendous,  if  I  make  good. 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  63 

and  develop  thg  women's  department  of  this  great  in- 
surance company  as  it  ought  to  be  developed.  And  after 
awhile,  when  you're  thoroughly  grounded  in  the  drudgery 
of  business,  you  can  start  in  with  me.  We'll  be  rich 
women  some  day,  my  child ;  I  haven't  spent  half  my  best 
years  yet,  and  you  have  all  yours  before  you.  It's  for  us 
to  make  ourselves  modern  women  of  the  highest  type,  Bee ; 
self-dependent  in  the  fullest  sense,  not  man-bound  by  so 
much  as  a  hair  of  our  heads !  Man  shall  never  concern  us, 
except  as  a  jolly  comrade  or  in  our  business." 

Her  earnestness  had  risen  to  fervor.  "We're  going  to 
be  free,  Bee !"  she  cried.  "Free  to  prove  what  a  woman's 
life  can  be  when  she  dares  cut  all  bonds  of  sentimentality 
(and  forge  ahead  as  she  chooses.  I  burst  my  shackles 
long  ago!"  Her  gesture  was  triumphant.  *'And  yours 
shall  never  be  forged !"  She  flung  an  arm  of  comradeship 
about  the  girl. 

For  all  her  doting  motherhood,  the  physical  caress 
was  infrequent  on  Helen's  pai-t,  and  Bee's  more  sensuous 
and  unrestrained  youth  usually  leaped  to  response.  But 
now  her  slender  body  remained  passive  in  the  embrace. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured  doubtfully.  "Yes.  It's  wonder- 
ful, isn't  it?  We'll  be  very  rich,  of  course.  And  that 
will  be  such  fun — to  have  a  great  ruggy,  cushiony  apart- 
ment, and  a  sunken  bathtub,  and  more  maids,  and  our 
own  car.  Yes,"  she  mused  on,  strangely  remote  for 
the  accessible  Bee.  "I  love  soft  things — like  oriental 
rugs,  and  a  warm  bath  that  the  maid  has  ready  and  violet- 
smelly,  and  all  the  towels  you  can  use  and  throw  on  the 
floor — ^the  way  Cousin  Ress  has  it.  I  love  it.  But 
somehow.   .   .   ."  Her  remoteness  was  increasing,  as  if  she 


64   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

spoke  from  some  other  world,  the  dream-world  of  adoles- 
cence. "It's  fun.  And  the  fun  side  of  me  loves  that 
sort  of  thing.    But  the  other  side '^ 

A  vague  disturbance  was  contracting  Helen's  brow. 
She  stepped  in  alertly. 

"What  other  side  is  there,  silly  child?" 

A  pause,  then  determination. 

"The  other  side,"  Bequita  said,  ignoring  the  snap  of 
lash  in  air,  "the  other  side  is  the  me  side  of  me.  It  doesn't 
seem  to  care  about — things  that  cost  money.  It  just 
wants,  oh,  it  aches,  to  be  ine!  It — oh,  I  don't  know  how 
to  express  it,  but  it's  as  if  it  had  something  to  tell,  and 
it  would  burst  if  it  couldn't  tell !  It — it  tells  itself  when 
I  dance!  Oh,  if  I  could  only  study  dancing,  and  give 
up  everything  else — ^make  it  my  real  work!  Mother!" 
(The  almost  never-used  name  startled  Helen.)  "Why 
can't  I?  It  isn't  all  foolishness!  Mr.  McNab  said  so, 
and  he  knows  what's  practical  if  anybody  does !  So  that 
ought  to  make  it  all  right — with  you."  Bee  was  quite 
unconscious  of  the  stab  of  those  two  words.  "And  at 
the  same  time,"  she  went  on,  "the  me  would  be  happy,  too." 

Anger  and  pain  blazed  and  froze  at  once  within  Helen's 
mind,  suddenly  given  over  to  upheaval.  What  did  all 
this  reveal?  her  thoughts  clamored.  It  was  something 
behind  the  girl's  words,  rather  than  the  words  themselves, 
that  was  causing  her  disturbance.  It  was  no  longer  the 
childish  wistfulness  that  formerly  had  begged  for  danc- 
ing lessons ;  here  she  felt  not  only  a  clearly-thought-out- 
wish,  but  a  repressed  rebellion.  What  was  its  depth? 
she  wondered.    And  its  threat? 

^'You've  been  satisfied  enough  with  our  prospect  of  a 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  65 

successful  business  life,"  she  retorted  with  banked  heat, 
"until  the  idle  flattery  of  a  man-of-the-world  went  to  your 
head." 

"His  flattery  didn't  go  to  my  head.  He  started  me 
thinking  harder,  that's  all.  I've  never  done  anything  but 
want  it.  It's  the  very  highest  and  finest  interpretative 
dancing  that  I  want.  But  you  didn't  approve,  because 
you  thought  art  wasn't  practical,  and  so  I  crammed  my 
own  wish  down,  and  of  course  I've  been  interested  in  our 
plans  to  get  rich.  But  there's  been  something  down 
under  all  the  time — something  that  ached  in  the  deep- 
down  of  me,  even  when  I  was  happy." 

"At  nineteen  one  analyses  one's  own  emotions  with 
as  exquisite  a  joy  as  a  youthful  surgeon  feels  in  dissect- 
ing his  first  guinea  pig,"  sneered  Helen. 

But  to  her  surprise  the  girl  was  not  withered  by  the 
scorch  of  this.  Instead,  it  brought  her  head  up  with 
a  fling;  it  steadied  her  stumbling  expression  to  a  tempo- 
rary maturity. 

"I  don't  feel  any  'exquisite  joy.'  I  feel  something  that 
wants,  and  wants,  and  is  going  to  keep  on  wanting,  if  it 
has  no  opportunity  to  be  set  free  and  express  itself.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is;  but  it's  been  there  from  the  time 
I  was  born,  I  think,  and  I  suppose  it  will  keep  on  until 
1  die.  ,  .  «  Good  night,  dear."  The  "dear"  was  crisp,  a 
mere  form ;  Bee's  steps  passed  down  the  haU ;  Bee's  door 
closed. 

And  Helen  Kent  was  left  to  realize  that  this  puerile 
creature,  her  off*spring  and  handiwork,  had  brought  the 
debate  to  an  end  upon  its  own  authority ! 

Helen  turned  and  went  slowly  to  her  room.    There  she 


66   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

flung  herself  into  a  chair,  gripping  its  sides,  as  though 
to  steady  herself  against  the  two  overwhelming  surprises 
that  had  sprung  up  armed  before  her. 

The  one,  that  Bee  could  rise  against  her  in  an  opposi- 
tion both  heated  and  self-contained.  (Despite  her  own 
retorting  anger  and  roused  alarm,  Helen  could  not  resist 
a  certain  sneaking  pride  in  this  fact.  The  girl  would 
be  able  to  hold  her  own,  then,  when  she  should  meet  the 
world !) 

But  the  other!  The  surprise  that  this  creature  of  her 
vigilant  moulding  had  been  secretly  struggling  toward 
another  mould  of  her  own  choosing!  Instinctively  she 
realised  at  last  that  this  was  not  the  childish  whim  she 
had  always  taken  it  for,  but  a  far  more  serious  and 
brooding  desire.  For  the  first  time  she  woke  to  the  fact 
that  the  child  had  actually  taken  her  dancing  seriously, 
had  secretly  craved  what  erotic  youth  loves  to  call  "self- 
expression"  ! 

How  easily  she  had  always  believed  those  wistful  re- 
quests to  be  snubbed  by  a  curt  reply!  And  now  at  last 
it  dawned  upon  her  that  they  hadn^t  been  snubbed! 
Phrases  started  up  out  of  memory — phrases  laughed  at 
when  uttered! 

"Years  and  years  of  practice  wouldn't  tire  me,  if  I 
could  learn  to  dance-out  everything  I  feel  at  last,"  Bee 
had  said  once.     And, 

*'When  I  dance,  I  seem  to  know  things  that  I  don't 
know  at  other  times,  and  feel  things,  and  wish  things, 
and  say  things.     I'm  myself  when  I  dance." 

And  now  it  came  to  Helen — did  she  only  imagine  it  .J* 
— that  there  had  been  brooding  moods  of  late,  behind 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  67 

the  more  apparent  exhilaration.  So!  The  secret  ambi- 
tion was  taking  root!    Art,  indeed! 

Art !  The  very  word  roused  Helen's  sentinel  soul  to 
a  prickling  attention,  a  hot  defense.  Art!  Her  alleged 
objection  to  it  as  not  "practical"  was  but  superficial. 
In  fact,  she  knew  what  McNab  knew,  that  the  girl's  gift 
was  marked  enough  to  warrant  moneyed  returns,  and 
those  to  be  reckoned  with.  Far  deeper  lay  Helen's  real 
reason  for  fighting  this  art  impulse  to  the  death.  For 
she  knew  only  too  well  the  relation  of  art  to  all  that 
emotional  life  from  which  she  was  guarding  the  girl  with 
every  weapon  at  her  command.  Art,  indeed !  What  was 
it  but  fellow-conspirator  with  that  passion  which  she 
was  holding  off  from  her  daughter's  territory  as  if  it 
were  an  invading  enemy,  seeking  to  destroy?  All  her 
experience  of  life,  all  her  mother's  instinct,  all  her  feline 
love  for  the  child  she  sought  to  protect,  cried  warning 
in  her  ears. 

Yes,  she  knew  the  secret  of  protection.  Once  fill  the 
girl's  mind  with  the  cold,  steadying  influence  of  the  busi- 
ness world — ^let  her  be  hedged  about  by  ledgers,  desks, 
typewriters,  the  talk  of  "endowment  policy,"  "paid-up 
insurance,"  "probability  of  life,"  "first-class  risk,"  and 
she  would  be  safe.  The  business  world,  its  jargon,  its 
accessories,  were  death  to  romantic  dreamings.  Plainly, 
she  must  lay  stiU  more  stress  upon  these,  must  rouse 
interest  in  them  more  vigourously. 

How  mad  she  had  been  to  let  this  dancing  go  on  even 
as  play!  Why,  she  had  actually  encouraged  it,  never 
dreaming  that  she  could  not  check  its  influence  at  the 


68   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

snap  of  a  finger!    But  now  she  was  awake  to  the  danger. 
No  more  of  it,  play  or  no  play! 

Helen  cast  off  her  clothes  with  angry  flings  and  went 
to  bed.  She  lay  there  for  hours,  rigid  and  awake,  scowl- 
ing  her  resolve  into  the  darkness. 


While  Helen  lay  awake.  Bee  sat  in  the  little  white 
willow  chair  at  her  own  window.  She,  too,  was  in  dark- 
ness, but  she  looked  forth  from  it  upon  the  moonlighted 
river,  for  Helen  had  insisted  upon  giving  her  the  apart- 
ment's one  outside  bedroom,  where  her  youth,  healthy 
though  it  was,  might  grow  even  healthier  in  the  best  air 
obtainable.  To  the  last  detail,  Helen's  maternity  spared 
nothing  to  bring  forth  the  perfect  product. 

Bee  had  undressed  no  further,  although  it  was  long 
past  her  bedtime.  The  folds  of  the  Japanese  gown  still 
fell  about  her  relaxed  body.  She  was  shaken  by  the  con- 
flict through  which  she  had  passed — a  conflict  infinitely 
more  violent  on  both  sides  than  its  words  indicated.  So 
absorbing  was  the  mutual  devotion  of  these  two,  so  rare 
any  more  than  a  trifling  difference  between  them,  that 
every  utterance  of  this  altercation  had  been  like  a  blow, 
wounding,  shattering,  as  can  only  be  between  those  who 
love  intenselj^  Bee  still  felt  her  breaths  come  short,  her 
heart  thump;  she  pressed  her  hands  against  burning 
cheeks. 

"Oh,  I  wonder  if  Helen's  asleep?  I  want  to  go  to  her, 
and  put  my  arms  around  her,  and  tell  her  I  do  love  her, 
oh,  I  do !    I  want  to  kiss  the  hair  above  her  ears,  where 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  69 

it's  so  black  and  slippery!"  emotional  habit  cried  in 
torment. 

But  something  choked  her  as  she  almost  rose. 

"Yes,  I  do  love  her — oh,  how  I  do!  But  I  couldn't 
tell  her  I'm  sorry.  Because  really,  truly  I'm  not.  I 
only  told  her  the  truth,  and  I  can't  be  sorry  for  that.  I 
want  to  learn  to  dance,  so  that  I  can  dance-out  everything 
I  think — ^beautiful  thoughts,  and  poems,  and  songs. 

"There's  a  way  to  tell  everything  in  a  dance.  Not  just 
jolly  things,  but  the  sad  ones,  too,  and  the  dreadful  ones 
even.  Yes — even  that  ship — "  her  eyes  dwelt  upon  the 
looming  grey  (>bject.  "How  terrible  and  stem  and  proud 
and  cruel  it  is,  like  this " 

She  rose,  and  her  flexible  body  drew  itself  erect,  a  calm 
that  was  almost  majesty  breathed  coldly  from  her,  a 
slow,  austere  gesture  suggested  the  movement  of  the  great 
destroyer. 

She  sank  back  into  her  chair.  *'A11  I  want  is  to  be  me 
— ^how  I  long  just  to  be  meF^  she  breathed  painfully.  "And 
besides — I  don't  understand  it,  but  the  dancing  seems 
to  have  something  to  do  with — ^with " 

She  stared  out  at  the  moon's  streak  across  the  river. 
"No,  I  don't  understand  at  all,"  she  thought  on,  "but  it's 
as  if  the  dancing  were  all  one  with — with — ^that  other 
thing  inside  me!  When  I  dance,  I  somehow  feel  close 
to  hvm!  When  I  danced  the  daffodil,  it  wasn't  fat  little 
Mr.  McNab  I  saw  at  all;  I  saw  Philip  every  minute,  as 
if  he  stood  there  and  watched  me  and  liked  it.  I  think 
that  if  I  could  dance — ^if  I  could  only  dance-out  every- 
thing I'm  thinking — oh,  then,  I  feel  that  somehow  I  could 
find  him,  as  though  I  were  dancing  my  way  to  him,  wher- 


70   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

ever  he  is !"  A  dry  sob  of  impotence  suddenly  shook 
her. 

Could  Helen  Kent  have  seen  these  thoughts  she  would 
have  been  struck  dumb.  The  strength  discovered  in  the 
girl's  art  impulse  had  been  shock  enough;  but  here  at 
the  gate,  armed  and  ready  to  enter,  stood  the  other  pas- 
sion, the  very  enemy  itself,  the  foe  against  which  Helen 
had  erected  every  fortification  for  almost  a  score  of  years. 
Here,  summoned  by  the  fewest  of  memories,  urged  by 
the  many-est  of  dreams — ^here  stood  love! 

Long  before,  when  Helen  vowed  in  her  morbid  bitter- 
ness that  love  should  never  enter  her  child's  life,  she 
had  known  that  she  pitted  herself  against  nature.  But 
she  believed  in  nothing  more  securely  than  in  the  domi- 
nance of  Helen  Kent.  She  never  doubted  her  power  to 
rule  her  child's  emotions  as  she  ruled  her  daily  routine  of 
sleep  and  meals  and  study  and  play.  What  she  termed 
a  "sane''  life — freedom  from  romance  constituting  sanity 
— would  dissipate  emotionalism  as  the  sun  a  fog.  So 
long  as  body  and  brain  were  kept  busy  with  wisely-directed 
exercise,  no  "harm"  could  come.  Dam  the  current  back, 
was  her  doctrine,  and  in  time  it  would  vanish — evapo- 
rate, sink  into  the  soil,  scatter  in  forgotten  tricklings. 
She  was  astute,  and  her  natural  astuteness  was  augmented 
by  a  rare  mother-love ;  but  the  obsession  bom  of  her  own 
tragedy  blinded  her.  That  she  might  be  increasing  the 
pressure  of  the  current  by  this  process  of  damming  back, 
never  occurred  to  her  imperious,  self-sure  mind.  That 
the  inner  life  of  this  child  of  hers  might  be  an  unknown 
world  to  her,  was  utterly  unsuspected  by  the  masterful 
Helen. 


THE  FIRST  REBELLION  71 

From  the  day  of  her  arrival  in  New  York  Bee  had 
been  two  Bees:  the  overflowing,  jubilant,  impetuous,  en- 
thusiastic creature  that  her  mother  saw;  and  another  be- 
ing, known  to  herself  alone. 

During  all  these  weeks  her  hours  of  solitude  had  been 
again  and  again  engrossed  with  thoughts  her  mother 
never  suspected.  Every  day  she  had  watched — she  would 
start  at  the  sight  of  a  long  brown  overcoat,  peer  at 
some  face  in  the  crowd  which  had  suggested  a  resem- 
blance, turn  eagerly  at  the  sound  of  a  lazy  voice — always 
to  meet  disappointment.  Was  she  never  to  find  him  again 
— ^never — never — in  all  this  crowded  world?  Had  it  been 
but  a  moment  of  speech  to  break  eternal  silence — silence, 
and  forever  dreams — of  a  lean,  brown,  twinkling,  over- 
coated  young  man  on  a  Jersey  ferryboat? 

"If  I  could  dance,  I  feel  that  I  could  find  him!" 

"Whimsical  enough,  the  fancy;  and  yet  behind  it  lay 
a  dim  perception  of  the  law  that  Helen  understood;  the 
law  of  that  psychic  bond  between  art  and  the  emotional 
life. 

The  turbulent  thoughts  beat  her  into  a  weary  sleep 
at  last,  and  she  sank  back  in  the  little  white  chair.  A 
crumpled,  fragrant  heap,  Bequita  slept  on.  The  moon- 
light played  upon  her  hair,  her  neck.  Groping  hopes, 
longings,  the  young  agony  of  life  repulsed  but  neverthe- 
less clamoring  still  for  its  expression — ^these  filled  Be- 
quita^s  dreams. 


CHAPTER  IV 
FACES  IN  THE  CROWD 


MORNING  brought  a  reaction  of  ardor  between 
Helen  and  Bee.  Shocked,  pained  upon  recall- 
ing last  night's  incident,  they  hurried  with 
their  wounds  to  the  healing  waters  of  reconciliation. 

*'Good  morning,  little  girl !  Don't  you  want  some  new 
violet  soap  for  your  bath?"  rang  from  Helen's  room — 
she  knew  Bequita's  wanton  delight  at  "breaking  into" 
cakes  of  expensive  French  soap.     And, 

"Top  o'  the  marnin',  Helen  darlin'!"  burst  in  at  her 
door  with  a  Bee  that  was  all  bear-hugs  and  kisses. 

Helen's  angry  fright  of  the  night  before  had  vanished. 
How  could  it  have  taken  such  hold  of  her?  she  wondered, 
disdainfully  amused  at  her  own  weakness.  The  young 
thing  was  wet  clay  in  her  hands.  Thank  fortune  she 
had  caught  the  warning  in  time,  while  yet  the  clay  was 
wetf 

At  the  close  of  a  merry  breakfast,  "Dearest,  let's  do 
each  other's  rooms,  for  lovingness!"  Bee  cried,  and  was 
off,  swooping  up  her  mother's  pillows,  beating  them  to 
a  fluff,  patting  the  beautiful  embroidered  bedspread 
into  orderly  beauty,  rearranging  the  heavy  silver  toilet 

72 


FACES  IN  THE  CROWD  73 

pieces  upon  the  dressing  table — treasures  cherished  from 
earlier  years,  kept  intact  by  Helen's  exquisite  care. 

Their  relations  shone  brighter  than  ever  before,  like 
a  flower  that  is  not  one  whit  beaten,  only  refreshed  by 
the  storm.  Rejoicing  quite  as  eagerly  as  Bee,  Helen 
hurried  with  an  indulgent  snule  to  the  little  blue  room 
that  overlooked  the  river.  With  lingering  hands  she  hung 
away  the  dressing-gown  and  its  incorrigible  storks;  she 
drew  up  shoes  and  slippers  in  regimental  rows  within  the 
closet ;  she  aligned  the  books  on  a  hanging  shelf ;  she  made 
loving,  useless  motions  as  she  touched  the  white  brush 
and  comb,  the  mirror  and  buffers  and  emery  and  orange- 
wood  sticks.  With  such  motions  had  she  once  handled 
the  small  white  utensUs  in  a  puffy,  lacey,  foolishly  adora- 
ble pink  baby-basket.     .     .     . 

How  she  loved  the  child !  stabbed  her  once  more. 

And  again,  a  half-hour  later,  as  she  stood  at  the  win- 
dow to  return  the  wave  of  the  grey  squirrel  muff,  how 
she  loved  the  child!  She  would  give  her  all,  she  would 
sell  her  last   chance   of  happiness,   for  Bee. 


n 


Bee  waved  her  muff,  and  turned  toward  the  river  and 
her  own  thoughts. 

The  day  was  keen,  it  made  her  thoughts  tumble  im- 
petuously. There — wasn't  that  a  long  brown  overcoat 
just  coming  around  the  corner?  Yes,  and  a  very  long, 
lean  person  within  it — her  breath  caught — but  now  the 
person  turned.  He  was  at  least  fifty,  and  dyspeptic  at 
that. 


74    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

So  it  went.  Day  after  day  she  watched,  waited,  sought 
faces  in  the  crowd,  hoped,  was  disappointed.  It  had  be- 
come automatic  now,  this  action  of  her  eyes  and  brain. 
They  searched  absurd  places,  scanned  impossible  persons. 

A  green  bus  came  lurching  down  the  Drive,  and  she 
mounted.  Presently  she  would  be  at  her  daily  routine 
within  the  secluded  cloisters  of  Miss  Timmons'  Private 
Business  School  for  Young  Women.  But  for  half  an 
hour  Bequita,  atop  the  green  bus,  would  be  wistfully 
scanning  every  long  masculine  figure  she  met. 

"One  might  go  on  like  this  for  years  upon  years  upon 
years!"  sighed  Bequita. 


m 


Helen,  having  set  the  household  machinery  to  running 
for  the  day,  started  downtown.  She  wanted  to  look  over 
the  office  before  taking  up  work  on  the  following  Mon- 
day. But  first  she  visited  the  near-by  shops  in  person, 
instead  of  using  the  telephone;  no  hit-or-miss  marketing 
in  her  efficient  methods.  She  selected  her  small  Delmon- 
ico  roast  as  fastidiously  as  during  the  far-away  period  of 
prosperity  when  she  had  directed  a  number  of  servants 
and  entertained  on  a  lavish  scale.  Her  lettuce,  oranges, 
pears  for  baking,  green  peppers  for  rice  stuffing,  were 
all  chosen  under  her  own  inspection;  and  the  tradesmen 
with  whom  she  dealt  expended  more  pains  upon  her  very 
small  orders  than  upon  those  of  her  neighbors  who  bought 
five  times  as  largely.  Mrs.  Kent's  fastidiousness  seemed 
to  infect  them,  her  quick  displeasure  and  equally  quick 
approval  stirred  their  efi^ort  to  please. 


FACES  IN  THE  CROWD  75 

"Even  after  I  take  my  position,  the  housekeeping  shan't 
suffer,"  she  resolved.  In  its  simple  way  her  table  was 
perfect ;  critical  taste  demanded  this,  but  far  more  urgent 
was  her  insistence  that  Bee  should  have  the  most  nutri- 
tious, the  most  carefully  balanced  menu.  With  a  iSnal 
satisfied  glance  at  her  pearly-green  lettuce  hearts^  she 
hastened  to  the  subway. 

The  great  insurance  company  occupied  a  vast  suite  of 
rooms  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city.  There  were  recep- 
tion rooms,  and  private  offices  where  the  imposing  repre- 
sentatives of  the  company  crossed  velvet  carpets  and 
passed  rubber  plants  en  route  to  corpulent  mahogany 
desks.  There  were  spreading  rooms  where  sat  rows  upon 
rows  of  girls,  young  and  old,  all,  whether  young  or  old, 
wearing  their  hair  in  a  trifle  more  than  the  latest  fashion. 
'Spectacled  and  unspectacled  3"oung  men  sat  at  desks  or 
came  and  went,  a  large  majority  showing  indigestion  in 
its  early  stages.  But,  young  or  old,  man  or  woman, 
all  hurried,  hurried  ceaselessly.  One  felt  a  high  blood- 
pressure  in  the  veins  of  the  very  business  itself;  its  pulse 
seemed  driven  at  top  speed  by  a  heart  that  demanded 
more   and   more   expansion. 

"Expansion — that's  the  word !"  McNab  said  to  Helen, 
as  she  stopped  for  an  exchange  of  greetings.  "That's 
why  we've  fallen  for  you.  We  look  to  you  to  help  us 
do  it.  You  expand  us  and  we'll  expand  you — get  me? 
This  shop  doesn't  pretend  to  be  any  school  of  pliilan- 
thropy,  but  good  business  helps  everybody  all  'round — 
am  I  right?  So — ^we'U  start  off  with  one  of  our  best 
suites — reception  room  and  private  office — and  you'll  get 
more  room  as  soon  as  you  need  it.    Is  that  square?" 


76   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"That's  all  I  ask,"  she  told  him.  "Oh,  but  I  like  it !" 
She  looked  around,  over  the  bigness  of  it,  the  hurry  of 
it,  the  urgent  prosperity  of  it  all,  and  her  eyes  snapped. 
*'It's  been  my  dream  for  years.  It  spells  life.  Now — 
where  is  my  domain?" 

"Next  to  our  company  doctor's,  and  communicating, 
so  you'll  find  it  handy  to  confer.  Miss  Muldoon  and  I'll 
show  you  the  way."  He  called  the  young  stenographer 
who  was  to  assist  Helen ;  "pretty,  and  potentially  intelli- 
gent, but  sentimental,"  was  Helen's  mental  appraisement. 
"However,"  she  promised  herself,  "it  will  not  take  long  to 
develop  the  muscles  of  the  intelligence  and  amputate  the 
sentimentality." 

Thus  unknowingly  did  Miss  Muldoon's  long-lashed 
glances  and  full  red  poutings  march  to  a  threatened  doom. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Miss  Muldoon  in  response 
to  the  introduction,  and  dreamed  not  that  the  surgeon 
waited. 

McNab  led  on  through  the  corridor  for  some  distance, 
and  halted.  "Here  you  are — sunny  side,  outlook  toward 
Broadway,  plenty  of  room,  mahogany,  peacock-blue  deco- 
rations— what'll  you  bet  we  make  a  hit  with  Mrs.  Kent 
when  she  sees  it.  Miss  Muldoon,  eh.'"' 

"Hit?  Well,  I  guess  yes!"  And  the  two  beamed  upon 
Helen  like  a  pair  of  happily  conspiring  Santa  Clauses. 

McNab  stepped  ahead,  opening  the  door  to  lead  the 
way  in.  The  others  were  behind  him  in  the  hall;  they 
heard  his  hearty,  "Why,  hello.  Doc,  j^ou  back?  Heard 
about  the  new  neighbor  we've  got  for  you  while  you  were 
in  Boston?" 

In  reply  came  an  outburst  of  rage.    It  was,  to  be  sure, 


FACES  IN  THE  CROWD  77 

in  a  deep,  rich  voice,  a  voice  that  bespoke  cultivation ;  but 
neither  deep  richness  nor  cultivation  concealed  its  wrath. 

"I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  affair!  A  women's 
department,  indeed!  What  is  the  Monroe  Mutual  com- 
ing to,  I  should  like  to  know?  A  dignified,  conservative 
old  company — for  fifteen  years  I  have  been  proud  to 
be  connected  with  it — and  now  it  disgraces  itself '* 

Helen  saw  McNab's  pudgy  hand  steal  to  the  door  be- 
hind him  and  push  it  almost  shut.  With  Miss  Muldoon, 
she  waited ;  and  she  heard. 

"Oh,  come,  Dr.  Aspden,  you're  treating  us  rough!" 
Thus  the  conciliatory  McNab. 

"Disgraces  itself,  I  say  and  I  mean!  A  women's  de- 
partment, indeed!  Frills  and  furbelows  and  chocolate 
creams!  The  company's  doomed,  as  far  as  any  decent 
standing  goes!" 

"Oh,  look  here.  Doc,  you  ought  to  have  married — that's 
all  that's  the  matter  with  you !  When  a  man  stays  single 
too  long  he  gets  sort  of  out  of  the  habit  of  appreciating 
women.  They  aren't  so  bad — ^they  make  things  lively, 
so  to  speak."  McNab  still  maintained  his  soothing  drawl, 
which  apparently  acted  as  red  rag. 

"Make  things  lively!  Lively!  Yes,  sir,  this  new  wo- 
men's department  of  yours  has  made  them  lively  to  the 
extent  that  you  may  look  for  another  physician  to  the 
company!  Here  I  return  to  town,  enter  my  old  suite, 
stroll  into  these  rooms  as  I  used  to  do  when  they  were 
occupied  by  the  out-of-town  agents,  to  be  told  that  an 
interloper,  a  woTnan " 

The  pudgy  hand  closed  the  door  hastily  at  this,  with 


78    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

a  click.  Helen  could  hear  the  murmur  of  what  was  proba- 
bly McNab's  protestation;  then  a  sharp  crescendo: 

"I  tell  you,  I  shall  sever  my  connection  at  once " 

Helen  laid  a  perfectly  gloved  hand  firmly  upon  the 
knob;  turned  it ;  entered.  Miss  Muldoon,  following,  dumb, 
scared,  and  wondering  what  on  earth  was  going  to  hap- 
pen, saw  McNab  step  forward  with  a  distressed,  "Mrs. 
Kent,  just  a  minute,  if  you'll  excuse  us — '*;  saw  Dr. 
Aspden  clamp  his  lips  and  stand  defensively  staring  at 
the  "interloper"  with  an  air  of  outraged  dignity;  saw 
the  "interloper,"  graceful,  suave,  extend  a  hand  to  him 
with  a  self-possessed  smile  that  flashed  a  twinkle  of  relish. 

"So  this  is  Dr.  Aspden?  I  have  to  plead  guilty  to 
one  crime — that  of  being  a  woman.  Otherwise  I'm  not  to 
blame  for  this  situation.  The  company  has  chosen  me 
as  a  representative,  and  is  putting  me  into  this  suite. 
But  the  fault  of  being  a  woman  rests  wholly  with  me. 
I  always  intended  to  be  a  man,  and  I  simply  failed,  like 
any  other  weakling,  to  live  up  to  my  intentions." 

Dr.  Aspden's  hand  had  gingerly  received  hers,  and 
withdrawn  in  haste.  Helen,  looking  a  considerable 
distance  up,  saw  an  austerely  erect  man  of  some  forty-five 
years  or  more;  firmly  and  finely  chiselled  features;  grey 
eyes  under  straight  brows 

"Don't  disturb  yourself  about  me,  I  beg  of  you,"  he 
replied  icily.  He  showed  embarrassment;  but  there  was 
no  intention  of  yielding  his  indignation  or  his  ground. 
"My  ideas  are  conservative,  it  happens.  Since  this  com- 
pany is  taking  up  new  fads,  it  is  better  for  me  to  sever 
my  connection  at  once.  Good  morning."  And  he  snapped 
the  door  of  his  office  behind  him. 


FACES  IN  THE  CROWD  79 

"I  say,  don't  mind  him,  please  don't,  Mrs.  Kent!" 
began  McNab  in  a  fume  of  anxiety.  But  Mrs.  Kent 
met  his  eyes  with  a  nonchalant  smile. 

"I  don't!"  she  replied,  and  proceeded  to  settle  herself 
at  ease  before  her  capacious  desk.  "Now,  Miss  Mul- 
doon,  you  and  I  will  put  our  house  in  order."  And  she 
smiled  a  charming  dismissal  to  the  very  red  and  very 
perturbed  McNab. 

It  was  just  before  she  left  at  noon  that  a  tap  was 
heard  on  the  door  through  which  Dr.  Aspden  had  de- 
parted.    Irritation  lay  in  the  very  tap. 

"Come  in!" 

As  she  looked  up  at  him  now,  she  was  struck  by  a 
weariness  in  the  Doctor's  whole  aspect.  It  showed  in 
voice  and  movements,  despite  the  irritation;  it  was  en- 
hanced by  the  greying  of  hair,  the  thinness  of  figure. 
It  was  borne  out  by  a  certain  carelessness  of  dress,  con- 
trasting oddly  with  the  surgical  immaculateness  of  the 
man;  linen  scrupulously  white  on  the  one  hand;  on  the 
other,  a  homely  brown  necktie  badly  frayed,  a  drab  busi- 
ness suit  in  need  of  pressing,  hair  tousled  as  if  fingers 
had  perpetually  rambled  through  it.  "Exquisitely  clean 
and  abominably  untidy,"  Helen's  observations  recorded 
mentally. 

"I  just  stepped  in  to  mention  what  you  may  not  no- 
tice— that  if  your  desk  is  turned  this  way — "  he  seized 
and  moved  it — "you  will  get  the  best  light  and  air  with- 
out a  draught.  And  I  have  told  my  secretary  to  bring 
you  the  window  ventilators  I  had  made  for  my  office — 
they  are  especially  good,  and  can't  be  bought.  Good 
day." 


80        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 
''But  you  will  need  them " 


"No,  I  shan't,"  he  protested  with  annoyance.  "They 
wouldn't  fit  windows  in  any  other  building.  Good  dayV^ 
This  time  he  escaped.  There  was  no  opportunity  to 
thank  him. 

Miss  Muldoon  stared  after.  "Ain't  it  the  funniest 
thing  .f^  Mad  as  a  wet  hen — I  never  saw  him  mad  like 
that  before — and  all  the  same  he  wouldn't  be  Dr.  Asp- 
den  if  he  wasn't  doing  something  for  somebody.  Yes, 
take  it  from  me,  that's  Dr.  Aspden.  .  .  .  My,  but  ain't 
he  mad  to-day !" 

Miss  Muldoon  opened  the  lavatory  door,  upon  the 
inside  of  which  hung  a  mirror.  With  reverent  touch 
she  patted  into  shape  a  little  pad  of  hair  above  each 
ear. 

"I  never  saw  him  so  mad,"  she  repeated,  musing.  "I'm 
awfully  sorry,  though" — ^pat — "that  he  really — "  pat, 
pat — ^''is  going."     Pat,  pat,  pat. 

"You  need  not  be,"  replied  Helen,  in  her  neatest,  surest, 
most  deliberate  articulation,  and  smiled  faintly  and  diago- 
nally. She  adjusted  her  hat.  "He  will  not  go,"  stated 
the  surprising  Mrs.  Kent. 

Miss  Muldoon  turned  suddenly,  with  a  sharp  glance  of 
inquiry.  For  the  moment  curiosity  got  the  better  of 
secretarial  restraint.     "Why Do  you  know  him.^" 

**No,  my  child,  I  have  never  seen  him  before."  Helen 
picked  up  her  mufF,  and  smiled  a  trifle  more  carelessly, 
more  diagonally.  "I  do  not  know  Dr.  Aspden.  But  I  do 
know  his  sex.  And  some  da}-,"  she  added,  pausing  in  the 
door,  **we  will  have  a  little  talk  about  that  same  sex, 
you  and  I.   .   .   .  Monday,  Miss  Muldoon — at  nine  sharp, 


FACES  IN  THE  CROWD  81 

please,  so  as  to  get  a  good  start.  My  cousin,  and  a  lady 
whom  I  have  met  at  my  club  have  asked  to  take  out 
policies  as  soon  as  the  department  opens — Miss  Clifton, 
and  Mrs.  Gwendolen  Elise  Hobson.  Remember  the 
names,  won't  you?  That  makes  for  good  business.  And 
now,  good-bye.     I'm  sure  we  shall  get  on  very  nicely." 


rv 


The  winter  told  off  its  weeks,  and  still  two  Bees  dwelt 
within  the  charming  nest  of  Helen's  feathering.  So  widely 
did  they  differ,  that  only  the  passionate  pendulum  in 
which  youthful  moods  ever  swing  could  explain  their 
divergence. 

The  Bee  that  Helen  saw  was,  as  ever,  all  flash  and  rip- 
ple, like  the  surface  of  glad  water.  This  Bee  shone  in 
the  "good  times"  they  were  having — new  friends,  a  weekly 
theatre  treat,  occasional  restaurant  dinners,  and  that 
unfading  delight,  "bus-riding,"  kept  her  in  a  state  of 
happy  sparkle.  Helen  smiled  with  sagacious  satisfaction ; 
no  more  mutiny  here !  Yes,  she  had  caught  the  warning 
in  time,  again  thank  fortune,  before  the  clay  had  dried! 

Never  once  since  the  outbreak  had  Bee  danced,  even 
in  the  most  casual  way.  So  Helen  had  been  spared  the 
disagreeable  duty  of  having  to  squelch  that  form  of 
"self-expression"!  No  doubt  the  child  was  heartily 
ashamed  of  her  sentimental  nonsense!  And  she  had  not 
once  again  complained  of  disliking  the  Business  School. 
Yes,  she  was  indeed  "coming  around"  at  last  to  a  sane 
viewpoint.  What  a  simple  matter  it  was,  as  it  proved^ 
to  stamp  out  these  diseases  of  youth!     As  simple  as  it 


82        THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

had  been  to  carry  the  baby  Bee  through  her  light  attacks 
of  measles  and  whooping-cough ! 

And  the  other  Bee,  unseen,  unsuspected,  though  dwell- 
ing all  the  while  within  that  intimate  nest,  dreamed  and 
longed  and  ached  on.  Day  after  day,  as  the  weeks  grew 
into  months,  that  eye  and  brain,  trained  to  ceaseless  alert- 
ness, watched.  Still  they  scanned  every  long  masculine 
figure;  still  they  would  start,  would  flash  a  swift  mes- 
sage of  hope  back  to  the  longing  heart,  then  another, 
equally  swift,  of  failure. 

In  shops,  theatres,  restaurants ;  walking,  "bus-riding" ; 
m  company  and  alone;  still  they  watched  without  ceas- 
ing. And  still,  dreaming  out  from  her  west  window  toward 
i  he  darkly  shimmering  river.  Bee  would  sigh : 

"In  this  great  city,  among  millions  of  people,  how  can 
I  ever  find  him  ?  Any  day  I  may  pass  him — ^brush  against 
him — and  never,  never  know!  Oh,  it  could  go  on  for 
years  and  years,  long,  dreadful  years,  silent  years,  years 
that  would  make  me  old — and  grey!  And  after  awhile 
the  years  would  come  to  be — forever!'* 


The  days  were  very  busy  now.  Bee  attended  morning 
and  afternoon  sessions;  Helen  spent  long  hours  at  the 
office,  having  lunch  downtown.  She  had  swept  up  the 
new  work,  was  carrying  it  before  her  with  incredible 
vigour  and  success. 

On  the  Monday  when  she  officially  entered  her  new 
department,  she  had  knocked  at  McNab's  door  with  a 
smiling  request. 


FACES  IN  THE  CROWD  83 

"Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  have  that  door  of  mine 
leading  into  the  other  suite  fastened  permanentlj?** 

McNab  had  looked  slightly  surprised. 

"You  mean  the  one  that  was  the  Doctor's  door?" 

"Yes.  I  suppose  there's  no  telling  just  how  that  suite 
will  be  used  now,  and  anyway,  I've  a  liking  to  command 
my  own  privacy." 

"Sure!  Anything  to  please  you!  Ask  the  Company 
to  move  to  Yonkers  and  we'd  probably  do  it!"  McNab 
had  jested  good-temperedly,  and  a  carpenter  had  that 
afternoon  sealed  the  door. 

For  weeks  the  neighboring  suite  had  stood  empty,  and 
the  Company  had  worried  along  without  a  physician  of  its 
own.  No  one  could  be  found  to  replace  Dr.  Aspden ;  the 
management  was  missing  liim  desperately,  but  it  would 
not  listen  to  Helen's  offer  to  resign  that  he  might  return. 

It  was  not  until  a  late  February  morning  that  IVIiss 
Muldoon  conveyed  a  piece  of  news. 

"Dr.  Aspden's  coming  back  next  month,"  she  told 
Helen. 

Again  that  faint,  diagonal  smile  crossed  Mrs.  Kent's 
face,  and  her  eyebrows  arched  ever  so  slightly. 

"Yes?"  was  all  she  said. 

"He  sent  word  to  Mr.  McNab  that  he'd  come  if — if  the 
door  between  the  suites  was  permanently  fastened."  Miss 
Muldoon  struggled  with  a  rising  giggle. 

"And  Mr.  McNab? " 

"Wrote  him  that  it  had  been  done  already,  as  the 
women's  department  insisted  upon  commanding  its'  own 
privacy,"  reported  Miss  Muldoon.  And  the  giggle  had 
its  way. 


84   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

And  the  winter  months  approached  their  end,  and  still 
Bee  vainly  scanned  faces  in  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR 


HELEN!  Oh,  Helen,  it's  snowing!  Beautiful  tiny 
stars,  and  blossoms,  and  ferny  whorls,  and 
feather    rosettes — all    over    my    window    sill!" 

The  uncommonly  mild  winter  was  at  an  end,  and  now,  in 
a  sort  of  death-bed  repentance  for  its  neglect  of  duty, 
it  was  hurrying  to  produce  a  snowstorm.  Helen  glanced 
up  with  a  smile. 

"So,  my  young  California  ignoramus  is  to  have  her  in- 
itiation at  last,  is  she?    Better  hurry  out  before  it  melts." 

She  realized  the  thrill  of  this  event,  practically  Bee's 
first  experience  of  snow.  Once  the  child  had  made  an  ex- 
cursion to  a  perennially  white  peak*  in  her  native  state; 
but  that  was  ever  so  long  ago,  quite  in  kidlet  days.  Bee 
reminded  her ;  in  fact,  she  hardly  remembered  it ;  and  she 
had  always  supposed  that  snow  was  hard :  it  looked  hard 
on  Christmas  cards.  Watching  the  fluffy  stuff  fall, 
swansdowny  and  warm-looking,  she  had  never  dreamed  it 
could  be  as  beautiful  as  this ! 

"Darling,  must  I  do  my  room  now.'^"  she  pleaded  at  the 
end  of  a  gulped  breakfast.  "Don't  you  think,"  it  oc- 
curred to  Bee,  "it  would  be  better  for  the  bedclothes  to 
air  longer?'* 

85 


86    THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Helen  smiled  with  her  customary  expression  of  amused 
clear-seeing. 

"Run  along,  youngster — I'll  attend  to  your  room — 
this  once,"  she  added,  to  reinstate  her  discipline  in  her 
own  opinion. 

And,  as  always,  at  the  window  to  return  the  wave  of  the 
grey  squirrel  muff — ^how  she  loved  the  child !  her  thoughts 
cried  with  that  ominous,  indefinable  pain  of  motherhood. 

n 

The  streets  were  dismal,  as  always  in  a  storm;  but 
presently  Bee's  brave  gait  brought  her  to  the  upper  end 
of  Central  Park.  Here,  as  she  entered,  a  hush  seemed 
to  fall ;  so  early  in  the  morning  the  Park  was  as  deserted 
as  the  forest  primeval. 

She  walked  on,  rapt  in  wonder  at  the  miracle,  almost 
tiptoeing  as  she  penetrated  the  depths  of  those  woods 
so  marvellously  secluded  by  the  wizard  who  laid  out  the 
paths  that  the  outer  world  seems  to  have  vanished  at  one 
touch  of  the  wand.  Now  she  heard  only  the  dimmest 
sound  of  the  city,  as  low  as  a  distant  and  forgotten  sea; 
from  the  spot  where  she  paused,  no  buildings  could  even  be 
glimpsed  through  the  trees ;  the  effect  of  a  sudden  magic 
removal  to  a  remote  forest  was  complete.  Light  abun- 
dant snow  was  piled  upon  branches;  it  lay  at  rest  in  the 
stillness  of  the  air;  it  shone  unscarred  upon  the  ground. 
Once  a  small  brown  bird  alighted  and  disturbed  a  branch 
with  the  conunotion  of  its  wings,  spilling  a  thistle-down  of 
snow  to  the  ground ;  so  absolute  was  the  peace  that  even 
this  tiny  incident  cleft  it  for  the  moment  like  a  thrust. 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  87 

Bec*s  steps,  growing  more  and  more  awed  as  she  ad- 
vanced, stopped  at  last,  and  she  stood  as  if  before  a 
shrine.  The  beauty  almost  frightened  her;  and  it  hurt. 
She  had  never  felt  that  hurt  before.  It  was  as  if  at  some 
time,  ages  past,  she  had  known  just  such  a  place,  such 
beauty ;  and  as  if  she  had  lost  it,  and  had  always  missed 
it  since,  and  must  always  go  on  missing  it,  could  never 
hold  it  but  for  the  escaping  moment.     .     .     . 

A  pair  of  acquisitive  eyes  confronted  her,  and  she  dived 
into  her  big  coat  pocket.  She  had  not  forgotten  the 
graham  cracker  so  highly  approved  by  that  little  gour- 
mand, the  New  York  squirrel. 

''First  and  last  call  for  breakfast !"  she  warned  him. 
The  animal  peered  at  the  scattered  bits,  started  toward 
them,  made  pretense  of  disdain,  at  last  yielded  to  his 
fleshly  appetite. 

"You  greedy  scamp !"  While  she  rebuked  him  for  his 
gormandizing,  she  continued  to  pander  to  it  with  larger 
and  larger  bits  of  cracker.  He  was  gluttonously  stowing 
them  away,  when  from  behind  a  snow-swathed  clump  of 
bushes  was  tossed  a  peanut.  With  one  beady  glance  of 
valuation,  the  squirrel  basely  deserted  his  hostess,  who 
was  offering  her  best,  and  turned  where  entertainment 
appeared  more  to  his  liking. 

Bee  looked  toward  the  bushes  but  could  see  no  one. 
Apparently  the  peanut-purveyor  was  in  the  next  path, 
and  they  were  completely  screened  from  each  other.  She 
heard  the  person's  voice,  however;  it  was  masculine,  a  bit 
drawly,  deep,  husky,  and  nice. 

"What  royal  little  beggars  you  city  squirrels  are,  to  be 
sure!"  the  voice  was  saying,  and  more  peanuts  accom- 


88   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

panied  it.  '*Here  you  are,  totally  dependent  upon  our 
alms ;  and  yet  you  pick  and  choose,  you  demand  and  criti- 
cise, as  if  you  were  lords  of  the  land.  You  are  mere 
hangers-on  at  the  club  of  life;  but  any  stranger  might 
think  you  were  the  patrons.  Here,  sir,  is  a  fine  fat  nut ; 
and  another.     .     .     ."    They  pelted  upon  the  snow. 

Bequita's  breath  caught,  she  stood  tense,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  concealing  bushes.  She  was  conscious  of  a  des- 
perate desire  to  rush  to  them  and  pull  them  aside  and 
see  who  stood  behind  them ;  and  conscious  at  the  same  time 
of  a  compulsion  to  stand  perfectly  still  and  wait  for  the 
owner  of  the  voice  to  find  her  out — or  pass  her  by.  She 
did  not  know  that  the  impulse  and  the  conflicting  re- 
straint were  as  old  as  cave  days ;  that  all  her  womanhood 
was  bound  up  in  them. 

Her  thoughts  beat  like  wild  little  wings  against  bars: 

"It  sounds  like  him — his  voice  was  low  and  lazy,  exactly 
like  that — oh,  how  it  sounds  like  him !  The  kind  of  voice 
that  knows  it  can  wake  up  perfectly  well  if  it  wants  to, 
but  it  doesn't  waste  any  energy  till  there's  a  reason." 
Bee  was  "not  Nell's  daughter  for  nothing,  when  it  came 
to  sizing-up  a  chap,"  an  uncle  of  hers  had  once  observed. 

"He  talked  just  that  way,"  her  thoughts  continued. 
"Sort  of  laughing  inside  all  the  time,  and  yet  liking  the 
person  he  was  laughing  at.  Oh,  can  it  be  anybody  else 
and  still  sound  so  like  him?  It  can't,  it  can't  pos- 
sibly  " 

The  voice  entered  once  more.  "Life  must  at  times  be  no 
more  skittles  and  beer  to  you  than — to  me,  for  instance, 
but  I  believe  you'd  perish  before  owning  to  the  fact.  I 
know  your  type  of  poseur!     'Of  course  I  have  merely  to 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  89 

ring  for  a  meal  to  be  served,'  your  swagger  seems  to  say. 
Fraud  that  you  are !  And,  do  you  know,  I  like  you  for  it ! 
Tliere  was  a  decayed  Kentucky  colonel  Dad  used  to  bring 
home — on  his  uppers — averaged  a  meal  or  less  a  day — and 
yet,  when  a  meal  did  come  his  way,  and  he  couldn't  help 
falling  on  it  lustily,  he  always  explained  his  appetite  by 
saying  that  he  had  just  walked  ten  miles  to  reduce  his 
flesh  produced  by  overeating.  *Joke  on  me,  sir,  ha-ha, 
that  it  starts  me  overeating  again !'  he  would  roar.  BlufF, 
sheer  bluff.  But  there's  something  game  in  the 
hypocrisy." 

The  tail  of  an  overcoat  swung  into  sight.  It  was — 
yes,  it  was  a  brown  overcoat,  a  dark  mixy  brown,  and  of 
heavy,  rough  goods !  Bee's  throat  was  so  tight  now  that 
she  felt  as  if  a  cord  were  around  it,  and  being  drawn  in, 
in 

**There!  You've  emptied  my  pockets,  you  little  beg- 
gar !  Good-day  to  you !"  The  end  of  the  brown  over- 
coat swung  out  more  boldly  into  view ;  the  toe  of  a  boo^ 
appeared.  .  .  .  Bee  was  scarcely  breathing  at  all. 
The  speaker  had  bidden  his  adieu;  the  next  instant  lie 
would  step  forth,  they  would  be  face  to  face.     .    .    . 

A  queer  sickly  fright  spread  over  her  like  something 
cold  and  trickling:  that  fright  which  comes  at  the  con- 
summation of  any  event  long  waited  for,  for  which  every 
nerve  has  been  strung  taut  in  readiness,  from  a  lovers' 
reunion  to  a  hanging.  She  backed  wretchedly  against  a 
tree ;  an  astonishing  desire  to  run  and  hide  numbed  all  her 
faculties,  which  a  moment  ago  had  tingled  with  the  eager- 
ness of  hope. 

"I'm  a  little  idiot,"  she  whispered,  indignantly,  shutting 


90   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

her  teeth  in  determination.  "Every  day  for  a  month  I've 
pined  for  this  moment,  and  now  when  it  comes  I'm  scared 
to  death!    I'm  a  Httle  idiot,  I  say;  a  little  id-i^otT' 

She  refused  her  poltroon  feet  permission  to  stir  from 
the  spot  where  they  were  firmly  planted  beside  the  path. 
Her  hands,  reaching  behind,  caught  some  current  of 
valour  from  the  aspiring  tree  they  grasped. 

"There's  nothing  to  do  but  wait — wait  perfectly  still," 
she  instructed  her  coward  self,  "until  he  steps  out  and 
comes  this  way.  He  can't  help  having  a  good  look  at 
me;  and  then  I'll  see — I'll  see — if — he  remembers " 

Straight  as  the  high-hearted  tree  she  stood  against  it, 
her  eyes  riveted  to  the  clump  of  bushes  behind  which  the 
overcoat's  tail  had  once  more  swung  back.  Under  the  soft 
grey  fur  of  her  neckpiece  her  slightly  rounded  young 
breast  beat  in  a  storm  of  agitation.  A  tiny  flaming  ^spot 
of  nervousness  burned  in  each  cheek;  for  the  rest.  Bee 
was  paler  than  usual.  It  was  significant  that,  as  she  felt 
the  opening  burst  of  chords  approach,  that  opening  burst 
for  which  every  instrument  in  the  orchestra  of  her  nature 
had  been  tuned  and  waiting,  she  made  no  move  toward 
any  of  those  petty  preparations  of  dress,  that  artificial 
composure  of  feature,  so  instinctive  with  a  multitude  of 
women.  Short  locks  of  hair  had  fretted  themselves  loose 
above  her  ears,  but  she  did  not  touch  them;  a  glove  had 
come  unbuttoned,  but  she  ignored  the  fact.  She  rubbed 
no  leaf  of  papier-poudre  over  her  nose;  she  squinted  into 
no  tiny  mirror  to  adjust  her  hat.  Now  that  Bequita's 
moment  drew  near,  it  was  her  soul,  not  her  costume,  that 
she  put  in  order. 

The  moments  were  passing,  and  the  brown  overcoat  had 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  91 

not  appeared  again.  "Funny!"  She  frowned  anxiously 
and  strained  her  eyes  harder  toward  the  clump  of  bushes. 
But  all  was  still ;  the  surfeited  squirrel  had  departed,  see- 
ing that  the  feast  was  over;  the  voice  had  vanished,  no 
rustle  or  step  could  be  detected. 

"It  is  funny!"  Bee  pondered.  The  only  path  leading 
from  those  bushes  was  the  one  that  passed  her;  she  had 
therefore  taken  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  the  young 
man  would  come  her  way.  And  now,  apparently,  he  had 
departed ;  for  surely  he  wouldn't  be  standing  still  forever 
behind  a  bush ! 

Many,  many  minutes  now  had  escaped,  and  Bee  relaxed 
her  hold  on  the  tree,  and  stepped  forward  along  the  path. 
She  could  see  behind  the  bushes  now ;  yes,  the  young  man 
had  disappeared  as  completely,  as  soundlessly,  as  some 
Prince  of  the  Arabian  Nights  spirited  away  from  his  trem-' 
ulously  awaiting  Princess. 


m 


There  went  his  footprints,  blurred  already  in  the  pow- 
dering snow.  They  had  ignored  the  path.  Her  eye  traced 
them  on — she  walked  for  a  few  yards  thus  hopelessly  trac- 
ing them — until  they  lost  themselves  in  the  wheel-tracks  of 
the  road. 

Something  within  Bee  tumbled  down,  down,  thudding  as 
it  went.  "Oh,  why  must  it  always  be  like  this  ?"  she  whis- 
pered, her  lip  quivering.  "One  day  I  think  I  see  him  on 
top  of  a  stage — it  looks  so  like  him — and  then  it  turns  out 
to  be  a  stranger.  Or  in  Riverside  Park,  or  at  a  restau- 
rant, or  in  a  shop.     But  this  time — it  wasn't  fair,  this 


92   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

time!"  she  suddenly  accused  Fate.  "This  was  really 
Philip — I  know  his  voice  and  his  make-fun!  It  was  like 
holding  him  out  and  then  snatching  him  away!  It  was 
playing  a  practical  joke  on  me!     I  call  it  unfair!" 

Alone  in  the  still  temple  of  the  snow  Bequita  thus 
brought  her  charge  against  the  unseen  Powers.  But  a3 
ever,  since  the  first  man  and  woman  did  likewise,  these 
same  Powers  defended  themselves  behind  a  screen  of  inex- 
orable silence. 

"What  can  a  girl  do?"  she  demanded.  "A  girl  can't 
go  and  seek.  And  in  this  great  city  how  does  one  ever 
happen  to  meet  anybody?  I  might  be  beside  him  in  the 
crowd — right  beside  him — a  hundred  times — and  never 
know  it !" 

She  paused,  struggling  with  her  lip.  "Oh,  if  I  were  the 
man,"  she  broke  out,  "I'd  go  forth  and  seek!  I'd  seek 
day  and  night,  on  every  side;  I'd  never  give  up  till  I 
found  her!  But  the  girl — the  girl  just  has  to  stand  still 
and  wait,  and  wait,  and  keep  on  forever  waiting — ^in  vain, 
I  suppose.     .     .     ." 

All  at  once  something  hushed  her  frantic  spirit.  It 
seemed  to  be  the  peace  of  the  place.  Not  even  a  squirrel 
or  a  snow-bird  brushed  that  peace  now.  It  was  like  a 
strong,  quieting  hand.  Bee  could  almost  fancy  it  wanted 
to  make  her  listen  to  something. 

"What  if,"  slowly  came  an  idea  (it  seemed  to  approach 
slowly,  gradually  to  be  growing  more  distinct),  "what  if 
there  were  some  way  that  a  person  could  mahe  things  come 
true  while  keeping  still  and  waiting  for  them?'* 

She  was  very  still  after  asking  this  question,  as  if  by 
listening  acutely  she  might  make  out  an  answer.     And 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  93 

she  had  a  queer  sense  of  the  answer  being  in  the  air  all 
about  her,  like  those  vapours  of  which  they  teach  you  in 
the  laboratory ;  if  only  she  knew  how  to  gather  and  con- 
dense this  vapour  she  could  have  it  in  tangible  and  usable 
form. 

So  Bequita,  groping,  did  not  know  as  yet  for  what  she 
groped.  But  still  there  remained  that  queer  sense  of 
something  like  an  answer,  a  higher  knowledge,  a  solution, 
and,  with  the  solution,  peace.  It  was  something  that 
seemed  to  hover,  almost  as  if  trying  to  help  her. 

Helen  Kent  was  at  that  moment  sitting  at  ease  in  her 
swivel  chair,  dictating  her  morning's  letters,  placid  and 
unsuspecting.  And  here  in  the  solitude  of  the  snow  this 
mystical  succour  hovered  perilously  near  Helen  Kent's 
carefully  guarded  daughter,  reared  in  the  shelter  of  all 
her  mother's  atheism.  Could  it  be  that  the  delusion  so 
watchfully  held  off  from  without  might  find  its  way  from 
within  ? 

IV 

Despite  the  bitterness  of  disappointment  Bee  was  con- 
scious of  some  unexplained  easing  of  that  bitterness.  She 
strolled  on,  roaming  as  idly  among  these  winter  trees  as 
though  they  had  been  sheathed  in  white  blossoms ;  there 
was  no  whip  in  the  air,  so  mild  was  the  day  that  the  snow 
seemed  no  more  than  a  down  puff  to  snuggle  the  world 
to  warmth. 

"You  see,"  she  explained  to  that  undefined,  invisible 
listener  who  accompanies  each  one  of  us  on  our  solitary 
travels,  "one  thing  that  made  me  think  it  was  Philip  was 
his  talking  to  the  squirrel.     He  likes  animals,  and  he  dis- 


94.   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

cusses  matters  with  them  as  if  they  were  human  beings.  I 
saw  that,  with  the  old  horse  on  the  ferryboat.  And  then 
the  brown  overcoat — exactly  like  his ! 

"Suppose  I  had  found  him  after  all?  I  wonder — oh, 
I  wonder! — what  we  each  should  have  done! 

"Suppose  he  had  said  that  he  had  been  looking  for  me. 
Should  I  have  owned  that  I  have  looked,  too  ?  Girls  don't 
tell  those  things.  That  is,  they're  not  supposed  to.  I 
wonder,"  mused  Bequita,  "why?  Is  there  really  any 
reason?  I  should  have  to  be  very  careful,  and  only  say, 
'I'm  glad  to  see  you  again' ;  but  I'd  like  to  be  honest,  and 
say,  *I've  thought  of  you  every  day.'  But  girls  say  it 
isn't  modest,  and  that  men  don't  like  you  if  they  think 
you  like  them  too  much.    I'd  ask  Helen,  but — — " 

For  the  instant  Bee's  eyes  swam  in  tears.  All  of  her 
ignorant,  above  all,  self-ignorant  youth  was  crying  for 
the  guidance  it  craved. 

"Helen  would  laugh  at  me,  and  quote  something  sar- 
castic from  her  little  red  'Book  of  Days,'  like  'Love  is  a 
passion  that  removeth  the  understanding,  a  thing  without 
reason,  without  order  and  stability.'  " 

But  the  moment's  pang  passed.  The  snow  was  falling 
again,  scattering  its  marvelous  designs  upon  the  blacky- 
blue  velvet  of  her  cufF.  No  two  alike !  And  all  as  soft  as 
the  stuffing  of  a  baby's  pillow ! 

"Like  this  it  comes  down !"  her  thoughts  cried,  and  her 
supple  arms  extended,  lowered  themselves  in  a  series  of 
soft  falls  that  suggested  the  fluttering  descent  of  flakes. 
"Light  as  thistledown,  lighter,  lighter  3^et!"  she  insisted, 
repeating  the  delicate  movement,  perfecting  it. 

Next,  "Oh,  that's  jolly,  the  wind  is  coming!"    She  was 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  95 

exclaiming  aloud  now,  so  solitary  was  she  that  she  had 
lost  all  recollection  of  anyone  but  herself  in  existence. 
There  in  the  heart  of  the  thronged  city,  like  some  bird 
of  the  forest  which,  on  open  wings,  tosses  forth  its  joy 
in  the  mere  sense  of  being.  Bee  "danced-ouf*  the  snow. 
To  her  it  was  a  discovery  all  her  own :  that  spirit  of  win- 
ter which  had  only  to-day  entered  her  life.  She  did  not 
know  that  the  snow-play  is  as  old  as  the  drama-dance 
of  Japan,  that  it  is  incorporated  in  the  very  childhood's 
expression  of  more  than  one  ancient  race.  She  was  tell- 
ing her  own  version  of  the  story  and  it  was  new,  as  each 
human  life  and  its  reactions  are  new.  The  snow  of  her 
dance  flickered  in  the  wind ;  it  frolicked ;  it  drooped,  fall- 
ing gently  when  the  wind  departed.  It  tucked  in  the 
flowers ;  rocked  them  to  sleep ;  in  her  arms  Bee  soothed  an 
imaginary  blossom,  folding  it  warmly,  crooning: 

"Tucked  away,  tucked  away,  sleep  till  the  spring." 

The  pantomime  dance  moved  on.  And  as  it  moved  on, 
that  feeling  within  her  grew:  the  feeling  she  had  often 
known  when  she  danced,  of  being  "somehow  close  to  him. 
As  if  he  stood  there  and  watched."  As  if  she  "could  dance 
her  way  to  him." 

Again  the  wind  rose,  her  dance  rose  with  it,  the  steps 
romped  madly  to  picture  the  moment  of  the  wind's  height ; 
wind-blown  locks  escaped  and  tossed;  there  in  the  isola- 
tion of  the  white  woods  she  poured  forth  the  wild  play- 
mood  of  the  snow.  It  escaped;  it  returned  mischievously; 
it  was  ofl^  again,  eluding  capture,  fleet  as  virginity • 

In  a  long  brown  overcoat  vnth  a  sprig  of  pussywillow 


96   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

in  his  buttonhole,  the  young  man  of  the  ferrybaat  stood 
before  her. 


Now  that  the  thing  had  really  happened,  the  thing  that, 
in  mere  anticipation,  had  set  her  very  thoughts  reeling; 
the  thing  that,  expected,  had  driven  her  feet  to  implore 
for  flight,  her  arms  to  cling  for  support — now  that  this 
thing  had  taken  on  form  and  occurred,  all  panic  slunk 
away  as  if  ashamed  in  the  face  of  the  moment^s  serene 
greatness. 

She  drew  a  long,  marvelling  breath.  And  this  Bequita, 
who  had  pondered  as  to  whether  she  must  be  "modest," 
and  not  permit  the  male  creature  to  "think  that  she  liked 
him  too  much";  Bee,  who  had  resolved  to  be  "careful," 
and  merely  say,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  again";  this  same 
Bee  was  bigger  than  her  resolve.  She  met  her  great  mo- 
ment not  falsely,  with  lying  eyes  and  prudishly  untrue 
lips,  but  gloriously,  head  up,  eyes  alight,  voice  newly  rich 
with  all  that  lay  unuttered  behind  her  words. 

"You've  been  so  long !"  she  said,  simply,  and  it  was  not 
one  hand  but  both  that  reached  forth  to  him  in  wel- 
come. 

He  stood  without  moving,  his  eyes  driving  straight  into 
hers,  asking,  exulting,  doubting,  agonising,  hoping,  long- 
ing, in  one  eternal  moment.  Afterward,  again  and  again, 
Bee  was  to  re^live  that  moment,  and  to  realise  that  it  was 
one  of  the  half-dozen  that  amount  to  the  sum-total  of  our 
span  here  below.  "It  was  as  if,"  she  told  herself  long 
after,  "he  had  thought  he  was  dead,  and  then  had  sud- 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  97 

denly  waked  up  alive,  and  had  looked  around  and  couldn't 
believe  it  and  wouldn't  believe  it,  and  yet  he  wished  with 
all  his  longing  that  it  could  be  true." 

For  what  seemed  minutes  upon  minutes  he  stood  there, 
challenging  his  heaven  to  prove  itself  to  him;  silent,  ter- 
ribly silent  in  his  challenge.  Then  with  one  long  stride 
he  reached  her,  as  if  he  would  seize  hold  upon  his  vision 
and  put  it  to  the  test,  whether  it  was  to  dissolve,  a  mirage, 
to  his  touch.  The  movement  was  bold,  defiant  in  its  in- 
centive; but  the  hands  extended  toward  hers  were  tim- 
orous ;  they  even  shook  as  a  man's  hands  do  but  once  or 
twice,  perhaps. 

They  touched  her  own.  Not  until  that  moment  did  he 
utter  a  word. 

"They're  real!"  His  sigh  was  sharp,  the  sigh  of  tor- 
tured tension  loosed.  "Now  I  defy  all  the  gods  to  snatch 
you  up  into  the  air,  or  cause  you  to  be  swallowed  by  a 
yawning  earth,  or  to  melt  into  vapour,  or  crumble  to  dust ! 
Let  them  dare  try  their  little  game  on  me  a  second  time !" 
The  whimsical  funning  that  Bee  remembered  so  well 
tweaked  his  words  to  playfulness;  but  behind  them  his 
eyes  burned  into  hers;  they  again  demanded  assurance, 
wondered,  longed,  feared. 

"Have  —  have    you    truly — ^been    thinking ?"    she 

breathed,  her  own  eyes  never  leaving  his. 

"Have  I  been  thinking !"    He  charged  on  with  his 

assaulting  eyes  toward  the  very  entrenchments  of  her 
mind's  fortress.  "Have  I  ever  stopped  thinking!  I've 
wondered  and  guessed  every  waking  hour,  and  examined 
every  feminine  being  I  met,  and  dashed  around  corners 
whenever  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  light  hair  or  a  grey  mufF, 


98   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

ruthlessly  bowling  over  old  ladies  and  children.  The  cas- 
ualties in  my  wake  will  greatly  swell  the  mortality  figures 
for  Greater  New  York,  especially  as  I  couldn't  take  time 
to  render  first-aid  while  the  hair  or  the  muff  were  still 
in  sight." 

Thus  the  whimsical  chaff,  a  screen  spread  to  cover  the 
soul  that  the  male  creature  battles  so  savagely  never  to 
reveal.  And  the  female  creature,  as  has  been  the  way  with 
his  mate  since  Eve  smiled  tenderly  aside  at  Adam's  surly 
protestations,  barely  saw  the  screen  for  the  ill-concealed 
truth  that  met  her  loving  and  therefore  all-understanding 
eye. 

He  asked  at  length,  and  now  his  tone  was  timid  and 
without  banter: 

"Did — ^you  wonder — too  ?*^ 

"I — wondered — "  (he  had  to  bend  the  least  bit,  so 
frightened  at  itself  was  her  voice)  "and  I  looked,  too. 
Every  single  day." 

They  stood  without  any  physical  contact;  their  hands 
had  met  in  but  the  lightest,  the  most  faintly  lingering 
friendly  pressure.  And  yet  it  was  as  if  they  rushed  to- 
gether after  long  waiting ;  as  if  the  immortal  thing  within 
each  claimed  its  own,  in  some  sublimated  form  of  em- 
brace. 

At  last,  "Let's  walk,  and  tell  each  other  about  it !"  he 
proposed,  boyishly. 

"Let's !" 

"You  begin — at  the  very  beginning!" 

"No!    You!" 

They  turned  to  the  winding  path  that  slipped  so  shyly 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  99 

away  into  the  forest,  and  there  in  the  snow  they  strolled 
as  lovers  stroll  on  a  mid-summer  holiday. 

"You  see,  my  pursuit  of  you  was  based  on  a  logical 
hope,  until  I  learned  at  the  hotel " 

Her  eyes  had  widened.     **Pursuit?" 

"To  be  sure.  Didn't  any  little  bird  ever  whisper  it 
to  you?  I  snatched  a  cab  and  came  driving  after,  that 
morning  we  met,  goading  my  poor  charioteer  while  he 
goaded  his  horse " 

She  was  breathless.  "Truly.?  As  if  I'd  been  a  Cinder- 
ella.?" 

"Precisely.  Cinderella  with  all  modem  inconveniences. 
For  the  up-to-date  young  woman  is  far  too  efficient  to 
scatter  any  valuable  articles,  such  as  slippers,  while  she 
liees.  She  understands  conversation ;  knows  that  the  cost 
of  shoe-leather  is  high ;  and  there  isn't  so  much  as  a  heel 
left  behind  for  a  clue." 

"But  Princes  should  give  a  hint  of  their  intentions. 
You  don't  suppose  the  original  Cinderella,  with  all  her 
thrifty  training,  would  ever  have  permitted  herself 
such  carelessness  if  she  hadn't  received  an  inkling?" 

"I  accept  the  rebuke  and  bow  under  it.  But  what  was 
I  to  do?  Frankly,  I  didn't  realise,  until  I  saw  Cinderella 
disappearing  forever  from  my  sight,  that  my  courage 
could  rise  to  the  occasion.  Courage  surprises  one  in  the 
hour  of  despair." 

"Then  why — why  didn't  you " 

"Someday  I  hope  to  tell  you  the  touching  tale  of  my 
cabby,  whose  sympathy  was  of  a  material  sort.  But  now 
I'll  hurry  on.  When  I  saw  Cinderella  disappearing  with 
her  coach,  I  gave  an  agonized  groan  and  fell  upon  the 


100   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

pavement  like  one  stricken.  Again  I  rose,  however, 
snatched  my  fallen  sword,  leaped  astride  a  galloping  han- 
som, dashed  through  the  streets  of  Manhattan  in  hot 
pursuit." 

"You  ridiculous  boy!"  She  laughed  a  long  ripple  of 
delight.  Strangely,  it  was  as  if  he  had  chaffed  and  she 
had  laughingly  protested  through  years  that  they  had 
been  growing  up  together.  And  not  once  did  it  seem  to 
occur  to  either  of  them  that  this  was  most  astonishing; 
that  in  fact  they  scarcely  "knew  each  other,"  as  Bee 
would  have  phrased  it;  that  they  had  met  but  once  be- 
fore, as  mere  fellow-passengers  for  a  ferry  trip's  length. 
By  magic  known  to  the  subconscious  mind  alone,  they 
seemed  to  have  grown  into  each  other's  knowledge  during 
the  months  of  absence,  so  that  now  they  met  at  a  stage 
of  acquaintance  as  far  advanced  as  if  they  had  spent  it 
side  by  side — or  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  even  fur- 
ther advanced,  by  those  unhindered  processes  of  silence'^ 

"I  succeeded  in  keeping  your  cab  in  sight.  The  chase 
had  its  thrilling  ups  and  downs,  under  the  auspices  of 
my  remarkable  driver,  and  I  managed  to  follow  until 
you  were  landed  at  a  hotel.  Then  I  retired,  perfectly 
at  ease,  and  strolled  and  lunched  at  leisure.  In  the  after- 
noon I  planned — well,  I'm  not  sure  just  what  I  planned — 
that  was  rather  hazy — ^but  somehow,  I  determined,  I 
would  present  myself.  At  two  o'clock  I  went  to  the  hotel 
office  to  learn  that  Cinderella  had  been  spirited  away  al- 
most as  soon  as  she  arrived." 

Bee  raised  her  han-ds  in  dismay.  "And  if  Cousin  Ress 
hadn't  snatched  us  up  to  her  home  the  minute  we  arrived 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  I'Oi 


I  might  have — ^it  might  have  been — all  this  time    "   ^*' 
she  stumbled  in  sudden  self-consciousness. 

"Yes.  All  this  time,  oh,  heartless  Princess,  it  might 
have  been  !^ 

"Say  rather,  *ill-fated  Princess.'  " 

"Would  that  I  dared  believe  you  mean  it!" 

Her  smiling  eyes  replied  to  this.  "Anyway,  it  doesn't 
matter  now,"  she  reassured  him. 

"Nothing  matters  now." 

This  bore  down  too  significantly  with  its  tone  and  look. 
The  maiden  within  her  took  alarm.  She  had  met  him  in 
splendid  fearlessness,  but  now  the  caprice  of  sex,  the 
instinctive  darting  to  cover,  had  become  alert.  "I 
mean — it's  nice  for  good  friends  to  get  together  and  talk 
things  over,"  she  murmured,  and  her  eyes  sought  flight. 

He  did  not  press  the  pursuit  then.  "Talking  things 
over  should  not  be  one-sided,"  he  responded,  with  imper- 
sonal kindness.    "JnTow  it's  your  turn," 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  myself,"  she  said,  with 
relieved  briskness.     "In  the  first  place " 

"In  the  first  place,  would  you  mind  our  revealing  our 
names  ?" 

She  turned  to  him  in  astonishment.  "Why,  we  haven't 
either  of  us  told,  have  we.'*    I  didn't  know  we  didn't  know, 

because  I  did  know — that  is ^"     She  broke  down,  her 

ideas  having  become  like  feet  tied  together  and  trying 
to  run;  "that  is — you're  Philip,  aren't  you?" 

He  stopped  with  a  jolt.  "How  on  earth  did  you 
know?" 

As  she  faced  him  they  both  stared,  not  so  much  at 
each  other  as  at  the  fact,  in  utter  astonishment.   *1sn't 


102   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

it  funny!  But  I  did!  I've  always  thought  of  you  as 
Philip.     I  just  knew,  somehow.     But  not  the  rest." 

"The  superfluous  part  is  'Rodney  Oliver.'  A  brief 
sketch  will  suffice.  I  dwell  in  a  modest  room  in  the  quaint 
old  downtown,  my  close  companion  being  a  highbrow  Bos- 
ton terrier  named  A.  D.  T.,  a  person  whom  I  wish  you 
might  know.  Since  I  returned  from  my  small  share  in 
damaging  boches,  I  fear  I  have  been  too  much  of  an  idler. 
It  is  thanks  to  idleness,  however,  that  I  happened  to  stroll 
back  this  way!" 

She  tingled  with  excitement  at  these  flashes  of  revela- 
tion.   "You  were  in  the  war?     Truly?     Oh,  tell  me " 

But  he  waived  it.  "We  haven't  yet  finished  the  subject 
of  names,"  he  reminded  her. 

"  'Mr.  Philip  Rodney  Oliver,'  "  she  read  from  the  card 
he  had  given  her,  with  his  address.  "That's  awfully  nice. 
Names  are  very  important,  don't  you  think?  Mine," 
she  went  on,  "is — oh,  I  wonder  if  you  are  going  to 
like  it?" 

"I  couldn't  help  liking  it.  Say  that  it's  Keturah,  Ke- 
ziah,  what  you  will,  it  shall  be  the  title  of  my  first  sonnet." 

"You're  the  most  rid-diculous  boy!  I'd  like  to  say 
*Keturah,'  and  see  you  crawl  out !  But  it  really  isn't  as 
bad  as  that.  It  is "  Bee  paused,  prolonging  the  sus- 
pense. Oh,  the  excitement  of  this  "getting  acquainted"! 
The  thrill  of  that  first  voyage  upon  the  uncharted  seas 
of  a  new  companionship,  whereon  we  are  destined  to 
sail!  The  discoveries  of  blossoming  isles,  of  changing 
tides,  of  perilous  reefs,  of  consoling  harbors ! 

"My  name  is ^"  said  Bee,  and  halted  in  suspense 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  103 

at  his  suspense.  To  utter  it  would  be  flinging  open  a 
gate,  and  her  hand  lingered  at  the  latch. 

She  said  at  length,  **Rebequita.^* 

Philip's  tawny  skin  flushed  with  delight.  "It's  the  very 
nicest  I  ever  heard !"  he  declared.  "It  sings,  and  dances ! 
And  by  the  way — you  have  told  me  nothing  yet  about 
this  dancing  fairy  of  the  snow,  whom  I  surprised,  and 
who  is  almost  as  wonderful  as  Miss  Rebequita!" 

Then  followed  the  history  of  all  the  long  years  of 
"dancing-out"  thoughts  and  stories  and  longings.  And 
the  ambition — ^if  only  Helen  would  let  her  have  les- 
sons ! 

"You  must  have  them!  A  gift  like  that  can't  be 
wasted!  If  only  Zelie  Barrajas  could  teach  you!"  he  ex- 
claimed, impetuously.  "She  lives  in  Bittersweet  Alley — 
no,  no!"  he  corrected  himself  on  the  instant.  "Impos- 
sible!" 

"Zelie  what?    Oh,  do  tell  me — is  she  a  dancer?" 

"A  blundering  slip  of  the  tongue,"  he  said,  as  if 
greatly  annoyed  at  some  inadvertence  of  his  own.  "It's 
out  of  the  question.  .  .  .  Won't  you  tell  me  how  you 
came  by  the  Spanish  name  of  Rebequita,  and  what  fol- 
lows it?" 

So  the  talk  sped  on.  They  were  magic  moments,  im- 
mortal moments,  but  they  fled.  With  them  fled  something 
never  to  be  recaptured.  Whatever  of  intenser  passion  or 
profounder  devotion  may  succeed,  that  first  voyage  upon 
the  sunlit,  luring  waters  of  the  unguessed  can  never  be 
traveled  again.  Thereafter  never  comes  quite  the  same 
thrill  of  surprise.  It  is  as  if  the  lips  of  the  spirit  met 
for  the  first  time,  and  the  future,  alas,  holds  only  the 


104   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

first  meeting  of  fleshly  lips  with  which  vainly  to  attempt 
its  reproduction. 

Bee  swung  around  in  the  midst  of  her  narrative  with 
a  violent  start.  "Oh,  what  time  is  it  ?"  she  cried  in  alarm, 
and  snatched  forth  her  watch.  It  pitilessly  reported  ten- 
fifteen. 

"How  perfectly  dreadful!  What  will  the  Obelisk  say? 
She  gets  very  angry — ^icy-angry.  I  must  fly  !**  She  was 
hurrying  along  the  path,  chattering  her  alarm  like  a  flut- 
tering bird,  almost  running,  so  nearly  escaping  that  he 
strode  his  longest  to  keep  up.  "I  must  get  that  bus!" 
she  cried,  as  a  reeling  green  vessel  came  lurching.  She 
waved  distractedly.  "Good-bye,  good-bye!"  she  called  to 
Philip. 

The  commander  of  the  vessel  was  snatching  her 
aboard — ^there  was  a  pause,  for  the  hoisting  of  two  old 
ladies 

"Good-bye!"  Bee  called  again  from  the  pirouetting 
staircase. 

She  saw  him  springing  to  reach  a  hand  up  to  her.  "But 
you're  not — not  going  to  vanish  again?"  he  panted.  He 
looked  as  frightened  as  if  the  earth  were  opening  to  swal- 
low his  all.  "Without — "  he  hesitated,  then  gulped  his 
hesitation — "without  telling  me  where  you  live?  Mayn't 
I  know?" 

**You — you  want  to  ?"  The  swift  pink  flooded  her  face 
as  she  had  felt  it  come  and  go  a  dozen  times  that  morn- 
ing. She  leaned  over  and  gave  him  the  address.  "You — 
you  will  come — soon?"  In  the  marvel  of  all  that  was 
happening  her  voice  went  low,  almost  below  hearing. 
But,  being  a  lover,  he  heard. 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  105 

"May  I?"  The  second  old  lady  was  being  hoisted  all 
too  quickly. 

"Do!  And  my  mother  will  be  delighted.  She  likes 
my  young  friends.  Come  very  soon!"  The  vessel  was 
setting  off  in  earnest  now. 

"Very  soon !"  reached  her.  She  saw  him  standing  where 
she  had  left  him,  on  the  asphalt,  and  not  until  a  honk 
pierced  his  ear  did  he  jump  for  life  and  limb  to  the  side- 
walk. 

From  her  seat  atop  she  waved  a  grey  muff.  His  hat 
was  waved  in  response.  But  for  all  the  gaiety  of  gesture 
there  was  a  certain  despondency  in  his  attitude :  as  if  the 
lunging  vehicle  bore  from  his  grasp  something  that  he 
might  never  again  hope  to  hold. 


VI 


Miss  Timmons,  the  "Obelisk,"  was  indeed  "icy-angry." 
She  conducted  her  small  private  school  on  as  rigid  a 
basis  as  Helen  could  desire,  and  she  made  severe  though 
brief  comment  on  Bee's  tardy  arrival. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Miss  Timmons !  I'll  do  twice  as  well  as 
usual,  to  make  up !" 

Bee  plunged  headfirst  into  the  dictation  being  given, 
and  her  dots,  dashes,  tendrils  and  corkscrews  trooped 
valiantly  forward  and  lined  up  on  her  notebook's  page. 
Following  the  shorthand  exercise,  her  t3rpewriter  ticked 
and  clattered  as  never  before ;  line  after  line  was  rung  off 
by  the  announcing  bell ;  over  and  over  she  swept  back  the 
carriage  with  strident  burr  as  of  a  harsh  wing,  and  began 
a  new  flight  across  the  page. 


106   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

But  the  vigour  lapsed.  Miss  Timmons,  finding  her  class 
absorbed  in  practice  work,  had  relaxed  into  a  book  on  the 
psychology  of  salesmanship.  Bee's  finger-taps  grew  less 
forcible,  less  rapid.  Her  brisk  staccato  fell  into  a  linger- 
ing touch,  suggestive,  at  length,  of  wistfulness;  one  felt 
that,  had  there  been  a  soft  pedal,  her  foot  would  have 
been  touching  it;  one  almost  heard  minor  chords  in  the 
tenderly  hushed  tones  of  the  instrument.  Her  eyes  were 
straying;  they  brooded  now  upon  the  snow-heaped  foun- 
tain in  the  apartment  building's  court.  Her  fingers, 
clinging  to  their  minor  chords,  fell  away  completely,  sank 
at  last  into  her  lap. 

In  the  clatter  made  by  eight  other  pupils  all  bent  upon 
improving  the  shining  hour  to  their  utmost  advantage. 
Miss  Timmons,  beneath  the  towering  coiffure  which  had 
tempted  Bee  disrespectfully  to  name  her  the  "Obelisk," 
read  on  at  ease.  Something  of  a  thinker  was  Miss  Tim- 
mons ;  she  was  intensely  interested  in  the  author's  discus- 
sion of  "the  business  world's  psychology." 

''Profound.  Subtle,"  Bee  heard  Miss  Timmons  mur- 
mur to  herself,  as  she  pressed  her  lips  to  an  emphatic 
line  and  nodded  her  carefully  netted  pompadour.  She 
turned  to  a  fresh  page. 

And  Bequita's  instrument,  like  a  piano  whose  chords 
have  wrought  dreams  to  steep  the  player's  own  senses,, 
lay  silent  and  forgotten;  Bequita's  thoughts,  albeit  only 
two  feet  and  seven  inches  lay  between  the  golden  head 
that  contained  the  thoughts,  and  the  keyboard,  had, 
paradoxically,  never  been  so  far  from  it.  For  she  had 
passed  into  her  own  world :  the  same  world  of  dreams  and 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  107 

longings  in  which  she  had  for  weeks  been  dwelling;  but 
now  she  looked  about  it,  startled,  marvelling.  For  a  veil 
had  fallen  from  her  eyes.  It  was  the  veil  of  girlhood. 
The  unveiled  eyes  which  now  looked  forth  were  those  of 
woman. 


vn 


Mr.  Philip  Rodney  Oliver  walked  slowly  through  the 
thawing  snow.  To  all  outward  appearances  he  was  walk- 
ing according  to  the  normal  functioning  of  muscles.  To 
his  own  inward  sensations  he  was  passing  through  up- 
heavals, overturnings,  leaps,  vaultings,  breathless  rac- 
ings, paralyses.  Blocks  passed  in  this  manner;  halting 
at  last,  he  found  himself  at  the  entrance  of  a  small  res- 
taurant. 

"If  I  can  sit  down,  I  can  pull  my  brain  together  and 
talk  things  over  with  myself,"  he  realized,  and  went  in. 

In  a  remote  comer,  unobserved  by  the  few  tardy  break- 
fasters  at  other  tables,  Mr.  Philip  Rodney  Oliver  or- 
dered food  that  he  did  not  desire,  left  it  standing  before 
him  untouched,  and  delivered  himself  to  himself  of 
thoughts  which  ran  somewhat  in  this  wise: 

"In  the  first  place,  Oliver,  you  don't  deserve  her.  But 
of  course  that  knowledge  won't  in  the  least  hinder  you 
from  trying  for  her — it  never  hindered  a  man  yet,  in  all 
of  history. 

^'Therefore,  since  you're  determined,  as  I  see,  to  make 
the  try,  there's  just  one  instruction  I  have  to  give  you — 
which  is,  although  you  miss  it  by  the  distance  of  earth 


108   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

from  high  heaven,  come  as  near  to  deserving  her  as  you 
can. 

"You're  a  loafer.  You're  a  picker-and-chooser.  You're 
a  procrastinator  of  the  deepest  dye.  Here  you  are,  pos- 
sessed of  high  training  for  a  fine  profession,  sound  of 
mind  (except  temporarily)  and  hody,  free  and  unham- 
pered, and  yet  you've  got  time  to  walk  in  the  Park  in  the 
forenoon.  To-day,  of  course,  that  was  written  by  the 
Fates;  but  don't  let  it  happen  again. 

"What's  the  reason  for  your  idleness?  Simply  that 
you've  spent  these  months  since  returning  from  France 
in  congratulating  yourself  on  what  you  did  over  there  and 
thinking  about  what  you  are  going  to  do  over  here — 
some  day.  You've  had  positions  offered  you  and  you've 
turned  them  down  because  they  weren't  good  enough. 
You  deserve  to  be  obliged  to  take  a  job  instead  of  a 
position. 

"Yes,  it's  put-off-ish-ness  that's  the  matter  with  you. 
You're  always  just  going  to  do  things. 

"But  in  spite  of  all  your  failings,  I've  noticed,  from 
the  time  when,  at  ten  years  of  age,  you  rose  in  your  wrath 
and  earned  a  bigger  sailboat  than  any  of  those  that  the 
other  kids  had  been  bragging  about,  that  you  had  one 
trait  worth  cultivating.  Although  you  took  longer  than 
anybody  else  to  get  ready  to  do  a  thing,  when  at  last  you 
made  up  your  mind  to  roll  up  your  sleeves,  you  did  it — 
and  then  some." 

The  ruthless  self-contemplation  paused.  At  that 
moment  there  flashed  through  the  young  man's  memory 
the  words  of  a  critical  lady  : 

"The  thing  that  interested  me  was  the  way  your  energy 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOUR  109 

came  up  out  of  your  laziness  so*' — with  a  finger's  snap — 
"like  a  bolt.     You'll  do  something  yet,  young  man." 

"Cling  to  her  prophecy  as  to  a  life-line,  Oliver,"  said 
the  young  man,  rising  and  looking  at  his  watch.  "I'll 
give  you,  you  darned  loafer,  just  five  hours  to  find  that 
job." 


CHAPTER  VI 
A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK 


HELEN'S  Cousin  Ress  was  to  lunch  at  the  little 
apartment  on  the  day  of  the  snowstorm.  Helen 
had  arranged  to  leave  the  office  early  and  take 
the  afternoon  off,  but  Ress  had  already  arrived  when 
she  reached  home. 

Miss  Resignation  Clifton,  many  years  older  than  Helen, 
was  the  one  member  of  the  family  who  had  warmly  wel- 
comed their  shockingly  enterprising  relative  from  Cali- 
fornia. This  wealthy  and  high-spirited  old  maid — such 
an  old  maid  as  only  the  twentieth  century  has  learned  to 
produce — ^bore  the  ancient  family  name  of  Resignation 
'*by  way  of  a  little  joke,"  she  explained,  "never  having 
been  resigned  to  anything  except  the  inheritance  thrown 
in  with  the  name."  She  was  frightfully  stout,  with  a 
wheeze;  bluntly  good-tempered,  as  the  stout  and  wealthy 
often  are;  had  a  passion  for  large-figured  dress-goods 
and  novel  adventure  (she  had  been  one  of  the  first  of  her 
sex  to  ascend  as  an  airplane  passenger)  ;  and  a  perverse 
delight  in  making  especial  pets  of  these  two  relatives  from 
the  West,  all  the  more  because  the  other  Cliftons  disap- 
proved. 

110 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  111 

"Anna  seemed  to  be  having  all  sorts  of  trouble  getting 
lunch,"  she  told  Helen,  "so  I  just  pitched  in  and  made 
the  French  dressing  to  boost  things  along." 

"Worked  in  the  kitchen,  forsooth!  I  always  said  you 
did  not  deserve  your  lot!  You  are  not  patronising,  or 
inconsiderate,  or  idle,  or  indiscreet — in  short,  you  don't 
know  how  to  avail  yourself  of  any  of  the  privileges  of 
wealth." 

"Helen  Kent,  you  ought  to  be  drawn  and  quartered 
for  suckling  that  adorable  child  of  yours  on  such  cyni- 
cism!    Hold  your  tongue!     Here  she  comes  now!" 

It  was  Bee's  slam  of  the  door;  it  was  Bee's  rush,  like 
flight,  down  the  hall ;  but  Bee's  shout  was  stilled.  Always 
it  had  been,  "Hello,  hello,  Helen  darling!"  or,  "Aren't 
you  ravishing  glad  I'm  home?"  or  some  other  extrava- 
gant nonsense.  But  now,  by  that  subtle  process  which 
telegraphs  a  mood  on  the  instant  and  without  a  word 
uttered,  Helen  became  aware  that  Bee's  silence  was  more 
piercing  than  a  shout. 

The  girl  paused  in  the  doorway.  She  did  not  see 
Cousin  Ress  for  the  moment,  and  her  eyes  glowed  toward 
Helen's  with  the  burning  excitement  of  her  news. 

"Helen,  I've  got  the  most  wonderful  thing  to  tell  you !" 
Her  voice  was  low  with  the  marvel  of  her  thoughts. 
"Dear,  what  do  you  think?    You  could  never  guess,  Helen 

mine "     It  was  then  that  she  saw  Miss  Clifton,  and 

fell  dumb. 

"Well,  infant,  what's  the  good  word?  Gracious,  she 
looks  as  though  she  were  seeing  things!  What  is  it, 
my  dear?     Arabian  Nights?" 

"Yes,"  Bequita  murmured.     "It  is — Arabian  Nights." 


112  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

It  was  not  until  she  slipped  away  after  lunch  to  school 
that  she  whispered,  "When  we're  alone  I'll  tell  you, 
Helen — oh,  it's  all  so  surprising  you  can't  believe  it,  and 
all  the  while  it  isn't  surprising  at  all !" 

"The  youngster  looks  as  if  she'd  been  falling  in  love, 
Nell,"  Miss  Clifton  observed,  as  the  two  settled  down  to 
black  coiFee.  "And  what's  more,  you  might  as  well  make 
up  your  mind  to  face  the  music.  With  a  girl  like  that, 
it's  got  to  come  sooner  or  later." 

Helen  sipped  at  luxurious  leisure.  But  behind  her 
movements  was  the  tension  of  tight-drawn  cords. 

"It's  coming  neither  sooner — ^nor  later,"  she  asserted, 
deliberately. 

"How  are  you  going  to  help  it?" 

Helen  extended  a  perfectly  manicured  thumb.  Its 
lower  phalanx  was  long  with  logic;  its  upper  broad, 
startlingly  broad,  with  will. 

"  'Sooner' — I  shall  keep  her  under  that,"  and  she  riv^ 
eted  the  thumb  upon  the  table.  "And  *later' — she  will 
have  learned  to  steer  safely  herself." 

With  steady  deliberation  Miss  Clifton  surveyed  her 
younger  cousin. 

Now  Miss  Resignation  Clifton  was  nearly  sixty,  and 
she  belonged  to  a  generation  which  had  not  discussed  in^. 
hibitions  and  obsessions,  neuroses  and  psychoses.  She 
did  not,  therefore,  pronounce  upon  Helenas  case  in  the 
terminology  of  the  complacent  modern,  who  sometimes 
knows  less  than  he  thinks.  But  Miss  Clifton  possessed,  if 
not  modem  psychology,  at  any  rate  what  she  herself  would 
have  termed  "good  old-fashioned  common  sense." 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  113 

She  gave  over  her  survey  at  length,  and  leaned  back 
in  portly  comfort. 

"Nell,  you're  a  fool,"  she  observed  affectionately.  "And 
a  damn  fool  at  that." 


The  later  afternoon  found  Helen  alone  and  reflective. 
"All  Ress's  nonsense!"  she  rebuked  her  thoughts,  as  they 
flung  back  at  her,  over  and  over,  certain  words.  That 
phrase,  "The  youngster  looks  as  if  she'd  been  falling  in 
love,"  was  curiously  persistent.  It  was  true  that  the  girl 
had  shone,  somehow — ^but  how  absurd  to  fancy  such  a 
thing ! 

The  doorbell  rang.  After  her  peculiar  fashion,  Anna 
Ushered  in  a  young  man,  and  Helen  rose  to  greet  him. 
This  was  no  one  of  the  new  friends  who  had  been  coming 
to  the  house  of  late,  nor  anyone  concerned  with  business. 
And  yet  something  in  his  long  leanness,  his  dark  face, 
struck  her  as  familiar. 

"Mrs.  Kent?"  the  young  man  was  murmuring,  ques- 
tioningly,  though  not  timidly.  It  was  as  if  he  inquired, 
with  a  charming  deference,  what  his  welcome  was  to  be; 
but  without  fear  of  the  answer.  "I  suppose  your  daughter 
has  prepared  your  mind  for  my  call.  She  was  kind 
enough  this  morning  to  command  me  to  come  very  soon, 
and  I  have  obeyed  to  the  letter."  His  smile  both  made 
fun  of  his  own  zeal  and  begged  forgiveness  for  it. 

The  slow  voice,  the  whimsical  eyes,  fluttered  at  large 
for  a  moment  in  Helen's  memory,  then  alighted.  To  be 
sure  she  recalled  him — the  young  man  of  the  ferryboat! 


114*   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

He  had  never  been  mentioned;  he  had  not  crossed  her 
thoughts  since  that  day  of  meeting;  but  personahty  al- 
ways left  its  record  in  her  well-ordered  mind.  And  along 
with  the  recognition  came  a  puzzled  astonishment. 

"My — daughter  .f^"  Wild  impossibilities  thronged  for- 
ward, blocking  her  thoughts,  as  always  in  that  stupid 
first  moment  when  a  situation  surprises  us.  Had  Bee 
been  meeting  him  secretly.?  Was  there  some  clandestine 
friendship?  And  then,  breaking  through  the  blockade, 
her  thoughts  found  their  way  to  Bee's  "wonderful"  news. 

"I  had  the  good  fortune  to  run  across  her  this  morning 
in  the  Park,"'  he  explained.  If  the  lady's  surprise  had 
surprised  him  in  turn,  he  was  bearing  off  the  situation 
with  excellent  grace.  He  told,  briefly,  of  the  accidental 
meeting;  there  had  been  a  delightful  chat,  he  said,  and 
he  had  brazenly  asked  permission  to  call 

During  this  narrative  they  had  stood,  Helen  listening 
alertly  and  eyeing  the  young  man  in  silence.  Ah,  the 
light  in  Bee's  eyes,  the  throbbing  hush  in  Bee's  voice! 
her  thoughts  cried  now.  The  sentinel  within  her  sprang 
to  attention,  stood  rigidly  on  guard. 

"My  daughter  is  not  at  home." 

"Then  I  won't  detain  you." 

"No— don't  go."  She  smiled  at  last.  The  tent-flaps 
at  her  eyes'  outer  corners  were  lowered  to  more  than 
usual  reticence,  but  the  dwellers  within  the  tents  peered 
forth  with  more  than  usual  awakeness.  She  off'ered  him  a 
chair,  seating  herself.     He  hesitated,  however. 

"Had  I  better?"  He  met  her  glance.  "I  find  I  am 
rather  afraid  of  you." 

She  laughed.     "Am  I  so  formidable?" 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  115 

"You  defeated  me  once.  The  vanquished  always  fears 
the  victor,  even  though  in  secret,  does  he  not?" 

"Defeated  you?" 

"Not  only  defeated  me,  but,  for  all  I  know,  jeered  at 
me,  after  riding  off  victorious."  He  paused,  respectfully 
but  rather  shrewdly  scrutinising  the  lady  in  his  turn. 
He  seemed  debating  some  problem  within  his  own  mind. 

Then,  with  a  gesture  that  suggested  decision  reached 
at  last,  he  said  resolutely: 

"Thank  you,  I  will  remain.  Long  enough,  at  least,  to 
ask  you  whether  you  could  possibly  have  guessed  what  I 
did  not — that  I  should  pursue  the  Princess  ?  And  so  have 
snatched  her  from  my  sight  on  purpose  ?  Were  you  clair- 
voyant ?  Because  it  is  true  that  I  did  pursue  her,  first  in 
a  cab,  later  astride  ray  galloping  thoughts,  and  have  done 
so  every  day  since  first  I  saw  her,  and  none  other  but  her 
do  I  adore." 

It  was  playful  in  word  but  deadly  earnest  in  purport. 
For  some  reason  of  his  own  he  had  evidently  resolved  to 
take  the  game  into  his  own  hands,  and  now  he  drew  him- 
self erect  in  his  chair,  arms  folded  high,  with  a  look  that 
said,  "Madam,  we  meet  in  the  open.  You  may  choose  to 
sting  my  face  with  the  lash  of  your  terrible  eyes;  or 
you  may  deliver  yourself  of  some  excoriating  satire;  you 
look  capable  of  either.  But  at  any  rate,  I  have  played 
high-handedly;  that  fact  brings  its  consolation." 

If  the  crash  of  his  avowal  stunned  Helen's  nerves,  she 
did  not  intend  that  he  should  know  it.  There  was  a  sharp 
wince  of  one  eyelid  and  the  corner  of  a  lip ;  there  was 
an  instant's  gripping  of  the  chair-arm;  but  no  stranger 
would  have  noted  these  signs,  so  swift  was  their  passing. 


116   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Vernon  Kent  had  known  them ;  time  had  been  when  he  used 
to  evoke  them  deliberately,  watching  for  them  with  a  mad 
desire  to  torture  where  he  could  no  longer  stir  love.  But 
her  smile  now  became  more  vivid,  although  narrower. 

She  waived  the  questions.  "You  have  my  condolences, 
poor  Number  Nine — or  are  you  Ten.? — ^let  me  think." 
She  spread  her  fingers  as  if  to  count.  "There  was  Rob- 
ert— and  Stephen — and  Dennis "  She  became  mur- 
murous, like  one  telling  beads. 

The  young  man  did  not  flinch.  His  chin  grew  stiffer, 
his  eyes  graver.  Under  the  playfulness  of  his  next  words 
Helen  felt  something  tautening  like  steel  wires. 

"Enter  me  on  the  card  index  under  0 — Oliver,  Philip 
Rodney,  Born  in  Oneida  County  twenty-four  years  ago. 
Father,  a  small-town  banker,  too  honest  to  do  more  than 
moderately  well.  Mother  dispensed  with  all  servants  in 
order  to  educate  three  of  us,  which  we  came  to  realise 
after  it  was  too  late  to  buy  her  a  rest."  His  face  tight- 
ened painfully  for  an  instant. 

"To  continue — said  P.  R.  Oliver  graduated  as  an  ar- 
chitect, but  as  he  had  to  give  his  attention  to  cellar  plans 
in  France  for  a  year  or  two,  his  real  career  has  only 
now  begun.  It  began  at  two-thirty  this  afternoon,  when 
he  secured  a  humble  position  with  Frost,  Timlow  Hunt." 
(Evidently  the  lady  recognised  the  name  of  one  of  New 
York's  greatest  firms  of  architects.) 

"This  same  P.  R.  Oliver  confesses  to  having  dilly-dal- 
lied a  good  deal  since  returning  from  France.  Want  of 
incentive  kept  him  from  rolling  up  his  sleeves.  But  he 
met  the  incentive  in  Central  Park  this  forenoon.  And, 
now  that  his  sleeves  are  rolled  up,  he  stands  a  good  chance 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  117 

of  being  rich  some  day — chiefly  because  he  has  always 
been  so  poor. 

"In  brief,  this  is  Oliver:  a  young  man  with  no  back- 
ground of  wealth,  distinction  or  influence — only  the  sim- 
pler aspect  of  American  life — ^that  of  the  gentleman's, 
gentlewoman's  home  in  a  typical  American  small  town. 
I  believe  it  to  be  the  most  representative  American  life 
we  have.  Our  large  cities  and  our  farming  districts  draw 
from  Europe ;  but  the  small  town  is  American  to  the  back- 
bone. It  cherishes  the  simple  old  virtues,  such  as  patriot- 
ism, home-love,  loyalty,  cleanness — the  stuff  of  which  our 
first  colonists  were  made.  This  young  man  doesn't  pre- 
tend to  live  up  to  its  ideals;  but  he  does  lay  claim  to 
hitching  his  wagon  to  the  star  of  those  ideals." 

Helen,  playing  with  a  shining  chain  of  jet  that  fell  to 
her  waist,  and  intently  watching  its  glitter,  followed 
Philip  OHver  with  close  attention.  There  was  silence 
as  he  ended;  he,  too,  fell  to  watching  the  jetty  gleams. 

She  said  at  length,  "And  you  have  told  me  all  this 
because ^^ 

"Because  I  come  to  you  as  a  total  stranger.  In  my 
short  chat  with  your  daughter,  I  did  not  tell  her  even 
what  my  profession  is.  So  I  am  laying  myself  before  you, 
asking  leave  to  be  your  friend  and  hers.'^ 

"If  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  mentioned  'adoration' " 

'*And  you,  I  suppose,  are  suppressing  the  statement 
that  I  am  a  young  fool  for  falling  in  love  at  first  sight?" 

She  nodded.  "Yes — a  young  fool,"  she  said,  compos- 
edly, and  fell  to  laughing.  It  was  a  laugh  that  seemed 
to  glitter  and  tinkle  with  the  same  hard  sheen  and  sound 


118   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

as  the  jet  falling*  through  her  fingers.  She  saw  him  wince 
at  it;  he  went  on,  however. 

"My  answer  to  that  is:  no  one  could  fairly  be  con- 
demned for  falling  in  love  with  such  a  Princess,  even  pre- 
cipitately. Moreover,  my  declaration  was  made  by  way 
of  dealing  honestly  with  her  mother.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  to  press  my  suit  with  the  young  lady  as  yet,  while 
I  am  a  hall-bedroomer,  struggling  with  difficulty  to  sup- 
port a  Boston  terrier."  With  the  return  of  his  whim- 
sicality he  recovered  complete  poise. 

"Then  laugh  at  my  presumption  if  you  will!"  he  po- 
litely defied  the  terrible  lady,  and  she  felt  in  the  atmos- 
phere an  unuttered  threat. 

"I  do.    For  you  half  confess  to  some  ulterior  purpose." 

"I  have  one.  Like  the  model  youth  in  the  Victorian 
novel,  I  beg  a  parent's  permission  to  win  the  hand  of  her 
daughter  when  I  shall  have  earned  the  right." 

Helen  leaned  further  back  and  surveyed  him  inso- 
lently. "Possibly,  my  dear  boy,  you  hardly  realise  that 
home-making  in  America  to-day  is  expensive.  It  needs 
a  solid  financial  foundation.  And  a  good  income  to  keep 
up  even  a  modest  establishment.  Plus  something  for  the 
ornamental  side  of  life.  You  know  what  Love  does  when 
Poverty  rat-tats  at  the  fashionable  brass  knocker!" 

"There,  my  dear  Mrs.  Kent,  is  where  I  am  not  a  young 
fool.  Again,  like  the  Victorian  youth,  I  am  prepared  to 
work  and  wait  as  long  as  necessary!" 

That  slow,  cool,  firm  voice  stirred  ever  a  sharper  alarm 
within  Helen.  How  lightly  he  jested  upon  the  surface; 
and  how  deep  she  felt  the  undercurrent  to  be!    She  recog- 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  119 

nised  in  him  a  precocious  self-command,  that  of  a  man 
twice  his  years. 

"I  am  willing  to  believe  you,"  she  said,  with  a  candour 
as  deliberate  as  his  own.  "In  fact,  I  think  you  will 
probably  make  good.  And  I  like  you.  But  you  see,  love 
has  no  part  in  my  scheme  of  life  for  my  young  daughter." 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  expect  her  never  to  fall  in 
love?" 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  expect.  And  intend.  *Love,' 
Mr.  Oliver,  is  a  disease  of  youth — nothing  more  than 
measles.  Poor  boy !  I'm  deeply  grieved  that  you  should 
have  fallen  victim;  but  you  can't  blame  me  for  shielding 
my  child  from  infection !" 

A  glance  at  the  clock  reminded  her  that  Bee's  return 
might  be  at  any  moment.  She  rose,  and  the  young  man, 
looking  baffied  and  distressed,  was  obliged  to  obey  the 
tacit  command. 

"I  am  sure  I  could  find  someone  to  furnish  a  conven- 
tional introduction — — " 

She  brushed  aside  his  protest.  "Entirely  unneces- 
sary! I  should  accept  you  without  it  if  I  chose  to 
accept  you  at  all.  But — well,  infection  sometimes  car- 
ries, despite  all  precautions — so  we  must  forgo  the 
pleasant  friendship."  And  Mr.  Philip  Oliver  found  him- 
self bowed  out.  "Good  luck,  and  a  speedy  cure!"  fol- 
lowed him  in  Mrs.  Kent's  most  suave  utterance. 

With  a  snapping  of  nerves  Helen  flung  herself  upon 
the  couch.  The  blood  swept  up  to  her  forehead  at  the 
release  of  tension.  Who  would  have  believed  it.^  She, 
Helen  Kent,  played  out  by  an  encounter  with  a  love- 
sick boy! 


120   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

What  should  she  tell  Bee? 

The  truth,  of  course,  was  her  natural  impulse.  But, 
suppose  Bee  should  be  left  merely  to  believe  that  the 
young  man  never  reappeared?  Would  not  her  roused 
emotions  die,  then,  an  easy  death?  Would  not  she  thus 
be  spared  greater  suffering?  Bee's  speedy  and  easy  cure 
was  the  point  at  stake.  Helen  must  spare  nothing  to 
effect  it. 

Bee's  ring  of  the  bell  brought  her  to  a  decision. 


m 


"Helen!  You  poor  tired  darling!  You  look  dead 
^-absolutely  dead!  You're  so  dreadfully  flushed — ^is  it 
one  of  your  horrid  headaches?" 

Helen  was  enveloped  in  a  hug,  and  the  cushions  be- 
hind her  were  chastised  into   fresh  order. 

"I  noticed  you  didn't  eat  much  lunch,  and  you're 
always  preaching  nutrition  to  me!  I'm  going  to  make 
you  some  tea  myself."  Bee  whirled  away  to  the  kitchen, 
and  Helen  lay  back  in  weary  silence  until  the  steam- 
ing pot  arrived,  with  a  plate  of  slightly  erratic  sand- 
wiches. 

"I'm  not  very  good  at  slicing  bread — I'm  sorry.  My 
knife  always  cuts  on  the  bias.  But  you'U  forgive  them 
for  being  a  little  bit  sloping,  won't  you?"  Helen  mus- 
tered a  smile  and  murmured  her  especial  partiality  for 
sandwiches  of  a  sloping  conformation. 

The  tea  revived  her  rapidly.  *'You  look  like  a  new 
Helen  already!"  Bee  cried.  "Now  we  can  talk.  I  have 
my  wonderful  news  to  tell!"     (Ah,  that  light  in  the  eyes 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  121 

again  1)  "But  it's  so  wonderful  that  it  must  be  kept 
for  the  last!  So  you  tell  first,  dearest.  What  have 
you  been  doing  to  give  you  such  a  beastly  headache?" 

"Nothing — nothing,  that  is,  to  account  for  a  head- 
ache." There  was  a  curious  note  of  annoyance  in  Helen's 
voice.  She  hesitated;  then,  "I  have  done  nothing  except 
receive  a  call  from  a  gentleman,"  she  stated,  and  her 
narrowed  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  Bequita. 

"A  gentleman?  Oh,  Helen,  who?  Was  it  nice,  fat 
little  Mr.  McNab?  Was  it  anybody  exciting?  Anybody 
new?     Someone  that  I  know?" 

Inability  excused  Helen  from  answering  five  questions 
at  once,  so  she  made  her  selection. 

"No.    It  was  not  Mr.  McNab." 

"Who  was  it,  then?    Any  friend  of  mine?" 

Helen  paused  before  answering,  and  absently  twirled 
her  wedding  ring.  Then  her  gaze  narrowed  again  upon 
her  exuberant  daughter. 

"He  is — ^no  friend  to  you,"  she  stated  deliberately  at 
length.  "He  is  a  young  architect,  pleasant,  but  not 
to  be  added  to  our  list  of  callers." 

Bee's  face  puckered  a  trifle,  as  she  tried  to  guess  her 
way  through  her  mother's  reticence.  *'A  young — archi- 
tect," she  pondered  aloud.  "And  what — ^what  did  you 
talk  about?" 

Helen  regarded  her  daughter  now  with  head  tilted  back 
and  sidewise  glance  piercing  from  under  drawn  lids. 

"We  discussed,"  said  Helen,  "problems  of  building. 
Naturally  the  subject  interests  an  architect.  We  talked 
of — foundations.  And  superstructures.  The  sort  of 
structure  suitable  to  America  to-day.     And  to  what  ex- 


122   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

tent  decoration  is  of  value.     And  that  old  question  of 
entrance  by  doorway  versus  exit  by  window.  .  .  ." 

She  rose,  and  stretched  her  long  arms  above  her  head. 
"I  must  go  and  dress.  Thanks  for  the  tea,  dear.  It 
did  me  good.  I  feel,"  said  Helen,  "that  I  have  the  whip- 
hand  over  my  forces  again." 


IV 


Bee,  left  alone,  gazed  about  the  room  wonderingly, 
as  though  its  walls  could  answer  her  vague  and  troubled 
questions.  What  had  Helen's  eyes  meant  by  those  black, 
shining  glances?  And  her  mysterious  replies — especially 
all  those  queer  remarks  about  foundations  and  super- 
structures, exits  and  entrances,  that  sounded  like  the 
things  the  Oracle  used  to  say  to  perturbed  young  Greek 
heroes.  Something,  somebody  had  upset  her — that  was 
certain.  She  had  been  wrought  up  to  the  point  of  one 
of  her  rare  headaches,  and  there  was  something  strange 
and  dark  about  it  all ;  something  she  was  holding  back. 

And  then  that  tight,  hard  smile — and  she  had  gone! 
Without  so  much  as  a  query  regarding  Bee's  wonderful 
news,   saved  till  the  last  because  of  its   wonderfulness ! 

It  was  very  strange  for  Helen  to  be  indifferent  to 
any  interest  of  her  daughter's.  Bee  had  been  certain 
that  she  would  remember  the  young  man  of  the  ferry- 
boat, and  be  excited  over  the  miraculous  accident  of 
meeting  him  again,  and  be  delighted  to  welcome  him 
as  a  friend  among  all  the  friends  that  came  to  the  jolly 
little  apartment.  Thus  one  Bequita  presented  the  mat- 
ter to  the  other  Bequita.     The  plausible  apologist  within 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  123 

her  mind  never  called  attention  to  the  constraint  that 
had  prevented  her  mention  of  him  during  all  these  weeks. 
It  never  liinted,  either,  that  Helen  might  have  seen  a 
marvellous  new  light  shining  in  her  daughter's  eyes,  might 
have  heard  a  voice  lowered  to  throbbing  hushes.  "He  is 
my  friend,  and  she  likes  me  to  have  friends,"  explained 
the  plausible  voice. 

"I'll  run  and  tell  her,"  an  impulse  cried,  but  some- 
how halted.  Helen  had  smiled  such  a  tight,  hard  smile, 
and  had  closed  her  door  so  firmly.  It  was  almost  as  if 
she  had  forgotten  the  wonderful  news  on  purpose! 

Bequita  rose  and  wandered  restlessly  about  the  room. 
She  paused  at  the  west  window.  Who  was  this  young 
man  that  had  so  disturbed  Helen?  her  thoughts  asked 
over  and  over,  and  found  no  answer.  And  why  was 
Helen  so  funny  and  mysterious  about  him? 

She  turned  away  perplexed,  turbulent  with  many  emo- 
tions. She  was  restlessly  in  need  of  action.  She  picked 
up  books,  opened  them,  laid  them  down.  She  played 
broken  bits,  standing  before  the  piano.  She  rearranged 
flowers,  reordered  her  hair  before  the  mantel  mirror. 
She  roamed  down  the  long,  narrow  hall— ^a  small  table 
stood  there  in  the  dark  end  near  the  outer  door,  a  table 
where  callers  sometimes  left  their  "things,"  or  a  card 

A  tiny  object  lying  upon  it  now  caught  her  eye.  She 
picked  it  up.    It  was  a  sprig  of  pussywillow. 

And  now  Bequita  knew. 

Never  once  had  her  heart  dared  guess  such  a  rap- 
turous guess  as  that  he  might  come  to-day!  Never  once 
had  a  gleam  of   suspicion   crossed  her   thoughts — how 


124   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

could  she  have  suspected  such  charming  audacity?  But 
she  picked  up  the  pussywillow.     At  once  she  knew. 

For  a  moment  she  could  only  raise  the  sprig  to  her 
cheek  with  a  stiff  movement  as  if  she  were  a  little  stunned. 
She  felt  the  short  velvet  pile  against  her  cheek,  her  lips, 
like  the  velvet  that  grows  at  the  base  of  a  kitten's  ear. 
She  grew  very  white  there  alone  in  the  dark  hall,  did 
Bequita;  white,  and  queerly  dumb  and  nimib,  while  a 
vague  hand  kept  passing  the  grey  pussies  over  her  cheek, 
over  and  over  and  over. 

Then  the  inertia  of  shock  passed.  A  fire  flamed  up 
in  her  eyes,  flushed  her  face;  she  seemed  very  tall,  very 
cold,  very  hot.  With  a  rush  like  the  sweeping  of  angry 
wings  she  was  at  her  mother's  door — ^knocking  impera- 
tively— ^bursting  in 

"This! — "  she  panted,  holding  up  the  sprig  of  willow. 

''This It  was  he!    He  came  when  I  was  out!   And 

you  weren't  going  to  tell  me!     You  sent  him  away!" 

Helen  stood  there  in  a  Chinese  coat  of  flame-coloured 
silk  in  which  Bee  had  always  told  her  she  looked  wicked; 
and  now  the  shallow,  burning  colour  and  the  oriental  sug- 
gestion seemed  more  than  ever  to  enhance  that  oblique 
gleam  of  her  jetty  eyes. 

"Well,"  observed  Helen  with  careful  insoucian4;ey  "now 
you  know!" 

"Yes,  I  know!  I  know  all  of  it?  I  never  dreamed  it 
was  he,  so  soon,  but  I've  found  out.     And  I've  found  out 

about — ^about "     For  a  second  the  charge  caught  in 

Bee's  throat,  but  only  a  second.     She  plunged  on. 

"About  you!"  she  cried.     "How  you  were  trying  to 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  125 

deceive  me.  You  weren't  going  to  tell  me — ever  to  let 
me  know  that  a — a — friend " 

Helen's  eyebrows  rose  to  the  highest  of  arches.  "What 
a  tempest  in  a  teapot,  forsooth,  to  be  roused  over  a 
mere  *friend,'  and  one  picked  up  on  a  ferryboat  and  in 
the  Park,  at  that!"  It  was  her  clearest,  most  delicate 
articulation,  which  Bee  had  always  feared.  But  now 
she  feared  nothing. 

"You  know  very  well,  you  can  see  for  yourself,  that 
Philip  is  no  ordinary  young  man " 

"  *Philip' !"  mocked  that  delicate  articulation. 

Bee  gasped,  startled  at  her  own  use  of  the  name.  But 
she  was  too  obsessed  by  fury  now  to  stop. 

"Yes,  Philip  is  his  name.  And  he  is  my  friend.  And  I 
tried  to  tell  you  all  about  meeting  him,  and  I  never 
dreamed  but  you  would  be  glad  to  welcome  him,  as  you  do 
my  other  friends.  And  instead,  you  treat  him  cruelly, 
and  conceal  it  from  me  that  he  came,  and  I  might  have 
gone  on  forever,  never  knowing " 

"Why  do  you  say  ^cruelly'?"  Helen  inquired  with  a 
careless  smile.  (Oh,  she  smiled,  cried  Bee's  thoughts, 
like  a  cat  that  keeps  a  mouse  in  torment!)  "Really,  I 
think  I  was  rather  polite  to  the  youth!" 

"You  practically  admitted  that  you  sent  him  away 
— *not  to  be  added  to  our  list  of  callers.'  You  must 
have  given  him  to  understand  that  he  was  never  to 
come  again!" 

"My  child,  I  regard  that  as  a  kindness.  It  was  of 
a  curative  nature." 

Bequita's  fists  involuntarily  clinched.  She  trembled 
in  enraged  torture. 


126   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"Then  he  will  never,  never  come  again?  That  is  true?" 
Even  the  terrible  verification  was  better  than  the  tor- 
menting ghost  of  a  hope. 

Helen  turned  to  her  dressing-table.  Deliberately  she 
raised  her  heavy  silver  hand-mirror  and  surveyed  her 
glossy  French  twist. 

"I  think  he  will  not  disturb  the  equilibrium  of  the 
household  again,"  she  said,  and  adjusted  a  jet  comb 
with  exquisite  precision. 

Bee  stood  behind  her,  and  in  the  mirror  their  eyes  met. 
The  girl  was  ablaze,  and  her  words  came  in  panting 
ibreaths. 

"Then  he  came — and  you  sent  him  away — forever — 
and  I'm  never  to  see  him  again — as  long  as  I  live.'* 

She  stopped,  as  if  strangled.  A  great  choking  sob 
held  back  her  words  for  a  moment,  but  no  tears  came. 
At  last: 

"Helen  Kent,  do  you  expect  me  ever — ever,  to  my 
dying  day — ever  to — to " 

She  almost  broke  down,  but  her  rage  gathered  up  her 
forces  for  her  and  she  concluded: 

"Ever  to  love  you  again?" 

She  was  in  her  own  room.  With  a  clatter,  she  had 
locked  her  door. 


It  was  a  night  of  tempest. 

For  the  first  time  in  Bee's  nineteen  years  she  was  learn- 
ing the  agony  of  adult  passions.  The  moods  of  her 
girlhood  had   been   flitting  whims,   for  the  most   part, 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  127 

light  as  moths;  and  she  had  taken  a  youthful  pleasure 
in  thrusting  through  them  the  pin  of  adolescent  self- 
interest;  in  watcliing  them  wriggle  and  die,  while  she 
classified  them.  There  had  been  among  the  lot,  "tiny 
mads"  and  "big  mads";  but  now,  from  the  plane  of 
her  new  maturity,  she  looked  back  upon  them  as  the 
caprices  of  a  child — ^her  own  child,  that  past  of  hers, 
to  be  humoured  and  pitied  and  forgotten. 

That  morning  she  had  entered  womanhood — the  grown- 
up world  for  which  she  had  yearned.  And  all  within 
one  day  she  had  discovered  the  throb  of  its  shai'pest 
longing,  the  sheer  precipice  height  of  its  joy,  the  pit 
of  its  despair,  the  sinister  ugliness  of  its  rage. 

Since  locking  herself  in  with  her  thoughts  in  the  after- 
noon, she  had  not  left  her  room.  Anna  had  tapped  and 
announced  dinner ;  Bee  had  briefly  replied  that  she  didn't 
want  dinner,  and  no  further  message  had  come.  She 
found  that  she  loathed  the  thought  of  food;  the  vio- 
lence of  anger  was  sweeping  her  like  a  disease.  She  did 
not  trace  cause  to  effect;  she  only  knew  that  her  head 
ached  like  an  anvil  and  that  she  wanted  never  to  taste 
food  again. 

All  night  her  head  ached  more  and  more  thumpily, 
her  feet  grew  icier,  her  face  hotter,  and  her  brain  more 
madly  wakeful  from  the  need  of  food  to  draw  the  blood 
from  it;  and  all  this  physical  disturbance,  roused  orig- 
inally by  the  mental,  now  reacted  in  its  turn  upon  her 
mind.  Her  woman's  emotions  had  sprung  into  being  full- 
grown,  and  as  yet  she  had  no  more  control  over  them 
than  a  child.  It  was  as  though  she  were  tugging  at 
runaway  horses  with  toy  ribbon  reins. 


128   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

As  her  fury  grew  more  and  more  feverish,  it  shrieked 
certain  phrases  in  her  ears: 

"She  has  snatched  mj  life's  happiness  from  me."  Over 
and  over  her  fury  cried  this.  So  final  is  event  at  nine- 
;fceen! 

"She  is  trying  to  kill  all  that  is  real  in  me."  "She 
never  could  have  loved  me,  and  let  me  be  so  unhappy." 
"She  pretends  to  want  my  happiness,  and  she  thwarts 
it  at  every  turn."  And  onx;e  a  strange  question  entered 
Bee's  mind: 

"I  wonder,"  she  asked  of  the  darkness,  "if  my  father 
had  lived,  and  been  with  me,  if  he  would  have  done 
the  same.'^" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Vernon  Kent  had  ever  en- 
tered his  daughter's  mind  except  with  a  shudder  of 
horror.  To  her  he  had  always  been  the  brute  who  had 
wronged  her  Helen.  But  now  this  strange  new  hostility 
toward  her  beloved  had  flung  her,  in  imagination,  toward 
the  other  parent  for  sympathy. 

And  invariably,  after  minutes  of  storm,  would  come 
the  horrible  conclusion: 

"There  isn't  anything  ahead  but  blankness.  Like  the 
Mojave  desert.  Years  upon  years  of  life,  just  like  tlic 
desert,  all  grey  sand,  and  every  little  while  a  cactus. 
Grey  sand.  A  cactus.  Years  upon  years.  Grey  sand. 
A  cactus." 

The  years  loomed  eternal.  She  could  not — ^no,  she 
could  not  face  them. 

Bee  sat  upright  in  bed.  The  covers  fell  away,  and 
her  thin  nightgown  fell  low  on  her  neck,  and  she  shiv- 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK  129 

ered  without  knowing  it.  The  room  was  very  black 
now;  it  was  that  terrible  hour  just  before  dawn. 

For  minutes  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  rest- 
ing them  upon  her  raised  knees.  Then  of  a  sudden  she 
flung  her  bare  arms  wildly  upward  into  the  blind  darkness. 

"God,  don't  let  it  be  forever !  Don't  let  it  be !  Bring 
Philip  back  to  me!  Don't  you  see,  God,  I  can't  live  and 
bear  it — forever!" 

Her  arms  fell.  Bequita  sat  staring,  amazed,  almost 
terrified,  into  the  darkness. 

"Why!  I — ^I  prayed!"  she  gasped,  in  a  sort  of  won- 
dering fright.  "Just  as  if — as  if  there  were  someone 
to  pray  to !"  said  the  daughter  of  Helen  Kent. 


PART  TWO 


CHAPTER   VII 
COFFEE  FOR  TWO  AT  THE  SPINDLE 


THE  long  reception  room  of  the  Spindle  Club  was 
crowded  to  suffocation  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  in 
late  March.  The  Spindle's  Sundays  were  always 
popular ;  and  to-day  its  guest  of  honor  was  Mr.  Cyril 
Sinclair,  the  dramatic  critic  from  London,  who  was  the 
fashion  in  New  York.  He  was  talking  delightfully  but 
not  briefly  on  "Dramatic  Expression  in  the  Twentieth 
Century." 

From  where  Helen  stood  (chairs  being  at  a  premium) 
she  could  watch  Bee's  face,  and  she  was  finding  in 
it  a  satisfaction  that  quite  took  her  mind  from  "Dra- 
matic Expression."  "Thank  heaven,  the  child  is  inter- 
ested in  something  at  last!"  she  caught  herself  almost 
groaning  aloud. 

At  last,  indeed!  For  the  past  weeks  had  been  a  pro- 
longed wretchedness  to  Helen.  Not  once  since  the  night 
of  tempest  had  Bee  stirred  from  the  overwhelming  depres- 
sion which  had  settled,  black  as  despair,  upon  the  gleam- 
ing buoyancy  of  other  days.  On  the  morning  following 
the  storm,  she  had  come  from  her  room,  surprisingly 
quiescent ;  had  never  alluded  to  the  quarrel  and  its  cause ; 

133 


134   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

had  dully  moved  through  her  daily  routine  of  home  duties 
and  school  work;  had  shown  no  more  spirit  of  revolt 
than  a  tornado-stricken  land.  Yet  all  the  while — through 
the  girl's  passive  acceptance  of  duty,  during  the  quiet  eve- 
nings when  her  book  would  fall  into  her  lap  and  her 
eyes  gaze  into  vacancy,  in  the  midst  of  merry-making, 
when  she  would  slip  away  from  the  other  young  people 
and  sit  staring  out  at  the  black  river — ^Helen  had  been 
conscious  of  depths  that  she  could  not  plumb. 

Helen  had  confessed  to  herself  that  it  was  wearing  her 
own  nerves  thin.  "I'd  rather  she'd  rear  and  buck  again. 
I  can  master  a  show  of  temper.  But  there's  something 
in  this  docility  that  I  can't  get  hold  of  to  fight.  Well 
— it's  up  to  me  to  give  her  new  interests,  keep  her  away 
from  her  thoughts." 

She  had  taken  her  to  the  theatre  more  than  ever,  had 
invited  in  young  friends,  had  insisted  upon  the  girl's 
accepting  every  invitation,  although  she  often  made  ex- 
cuses to  avoid  parties.  It  had  all  been  futile.  The 
cloud  had  hung  black  and  persistent.  But  to-day,  oddl}' 
enough,  at  this  club  of  women  artists  and  professional 
and  business  women  to  which  Helen  belonged,  and  to 
which  she  had  brought  the  child  merely  to  keep  her  from 
brooding  alone,  the  old  Bee  had  suddenly  flashed  into 
being.  There  she  stood,  drinking  down  every  word  that 
Mr.  Sinclair  uttered;  her  whole  face  was  kindled. 

"Why  on  earth  such  a  talk  should  rouse  her,  when 
dinners  and  musical  comedies  have  failed,  I  can't  imagine ; 
but  it's  enough  that  it  does!" 

So  engrossed  was  Helen  in  Bee's  awakening  that  she 
had  quite  lost  track  of  Mr.  Sinclair's  discourse,  which 


COFFEE  FOR  TWO  AT  THE  SPINDLE     135 

had  meandered  along  a  path  of  mellow  wisdom  to  the 
revival  of  the  ancient  art  of  the  dance. 

The  talk  came  to  an  end.  People  crowded  around  the 
speaker,  chattering  to  him,  twittering  thanks  and  con- 
gratulations. Helen  saw  Bee  struggling  through  the 
crowd,  straining  toward  him;  she  saw  the  distinguished 
gentleman  glance  past  the  crowd  of  tiresome  chatterers 
as  if  that  fresh,  eager  young  face  presented  an  oasis ; 
he  reached  forth  a  hand  to  hers;  "Oh,  I'm  so  longing 
to  ask  you  a  million  questions !"  panted  Bee. 

Had  Helen  listened  further,  the  sentinel  within  her 
would  have  sprung  to  its  post.  But  she  was  drugged 
with  satisfied  delight;  she  was  glad  to  turn  away  and 
leave  the  child  to  paddle  her  own  social  canoe.  And 
just  then,  as  Helen  turned  into  the  breaking-up  throng 
of  members  and  guests,  a  masculine  figure  caught  her 
eye — she  saw  the  back  of  the  head,  strong  in  modelling, 
decidedly  wider  than  the  erect  neck;  lean,  resolute  shoul- 
ders— ^hair  touched  with  grey 

"Can  it  possibly  be?"  wondered  Helen,  unable  to  see 
the  face.     "Incredible — and  yet  so  like  him!" 

The  throng  was  surging  downstairs  now,  to  crowd  the 
dining-room  even  more  suffocatingly  than  it  had  crowded 
the  upper  apartment.  Women  chattered,  and  gatheretl 
crepey  draperies  out  of  the  way  of  treading  feet  upon 
the  stairs,  and  called  back  to  those  behind  them,  and 
leaned  over  the  baluster  rail  to  greet  others  below  with 
little  screams  and  fluttering  hands.  Men  guests,  who 
numbered  one  to  six,  and  were  for  the  most  part  those 
docile  spouses  known  as  "club  husbands"  to  this 
feminine  organization,  were  borne  along  with  the  softly 


136   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

rippling  current  of  Georgette  crepe  and  taffeta  toward 
the  stimulating  aroma  of  coffee  which  lured  below.  Bee, 
along  with  the  few  other  young  people  present,  came 
after  like  a  swirling  spring  gust,  shamelessly  to  descend 
upon  "the  eats."  Yes,  for  to-day  at  least,  the  Bee 
of  sunshine  and  laughter  had  been  conjured  back,  indeed! 

Helen's  mind  was  at  rest  after  long  perplexity ;  but  her 
body  was  weary.  She  fell  in  with  the  noisy  throng,  but 
in  the  lower  hall  she  paused.  Suddenly  it  had  come 
over  her  that  she  could  not  stand  that  dining-room  crowd 
TbO-day,  It  pushed  and  snatched,  though  in  a  veiled 
and  deprecating  manner.  It  ate  and  ate.  It  talked  in- 
cessantly, and  her  head  ached — she  had  been  losing  sleep 
outrageously  of  late,  a  fact  carefully  concealed  from 
Bequita.  If  only  she  could  get  a  cup  of  that  coffee, 
yearned  Helen,  without  going  into  the  dining-room.  .  .  . 

The  crowd  had  passed  her,  she  was  left  alone  in  the 
hall.  She  heard  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Gwendolen  Elise  Hob- 
son  addressing  a  guest. 

"I'm  really  distressed  that  you  must  go — and  without 
even  a  sandwich!"  Mrs.  Hobson  rang  with  the  resonance 
of  deep  sorrow.  "And  we  pride  ourselves  on  our  Spindle 
sandwiches — they  are  fascinating!  I'm  sure  they  must 
entice  you  to  stay,  even  though  /  fail!"  she  pursued 
archly. 

Mrs.  Hobson  was  quite  the  most  ornate  member  of 
the  club — a  writer  of  dramas  which  were  never  produced ; 
instructor  in  dramatic  art  which  she  did  not  possess; 
highly  adorned  as  to  person;  smelling  of  sandalwood; 
fifty-five ;  and  excessive.  There  were  days,  reflected  Helen, 
when  she  couldn't  stand  Mrs.  Gwendolen  Elise  Hobson, 


COFFEE  FOR  TWO  AT  THE  SPINDLE    137 

and  this  was  one  of  them.  She  was  starting  to  take  her 
aching  head  out  of  range  of  the  temperamental  voice, 
when  she  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Hobson's  escaping  guest. 
He  was  the  tall  person  she  had  almost  recognized  up- 
stairs, and  now  she  fully  recognized  him. 


**Je  suis  desolee!  But,  as  woman  ever  must,  I  sub- 
mit!" mourned  Mrs.  Hobson  with  bovine  playfulness, 
and  gave  her  guest  a  clinging  hand.  She  sank  back  into 
the  dining-room  tide,  he  seized  his  possessions  in  the 
cloak-room,  and  was  hurrying  toward  the  outer  door  as 
if  to  make  sure  of  escape  before  recapture,  when  Helen 
became  conscious  that  an  imp  had  leaped  into  her  own 
eyes  and  waited  there  in  ambush.  It  was  not  her  doing; 
the  imp  acted  of  its  own  volition.  Such  haste  was  the 
gentleman  making  that  he  had  almost  passed  the  lady 
standing  shadowy  against  the  wall  when  the  imp,  flash- 
ing forth,  arrested  him. 

"Ah — good   afternoon,   Mrs. — Mrs. "      ("I   won't 

help  him  out!"  Helen  inwardly  chuckled.)  "Mrs — ah, 
Mrs.  Kent!"  he  recalled  at  last. 

She  held  out  a  hand  of  greeting.  "So  Dr.  Aspden 
flees  from  our  hospitality.?"  she  challenged,  while  the  imp 
fairly  gloated  in  amusement  at  the  gentleman's  ignomini- 
ous retreat. 

It  was  only  within  the  past  fortnight  that  the  Doc- 
tor's return  to  his  old  suite  had  been  eff^ected,  and,  oddly 
enough,  Helen  had  not  once  chanced  to  meet  him.  On 
the  day  of  his  return  there  had  occurred  a  great  rattling 


138   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

of  the  door  between  the  suites — evidently  its  security  was 
being  well  tested.  Miss  Muldoon  had  caught  Mrs.  Kent's 
eye  and  had  buried  her  giggle  in  a  handkerchief;  and 
there  the  matter  had  ended. 

"A  busy  doctor  can't  give  himself  even  Sunday  off 
for  pleasuring,"  he  began  his  apologies.  Plainly,  the 
unexpectedness  of  the  meeting  was  causing  him  embarrass- 
ment. "I — I — ^arely  take  time  for  teas — "  he  muttered, 
edging  away. 

"You  mean  you  detest  them,"  Helen  finished  for  him. 
"I  should  have  known  it.  Anyone  should  have  known  it. 
Mrs.  Hobson  should  have  known  it."  (Helen  observed 
to  her  thoughts  that  Mrs.  Hobson's  tactics  of  pursuit 
had  outdone  themselves  to  achieve  this  capture.  Already 
she  had  traced  the  steps — ^IVIrs.  Hobson,  as  a  policy-holder 
in  the  Monroe  Mutual,  had  contrived  to  meet  the  dis- 
tinguished physician,  and  her  usual  pressing  invitations 
had  ensued,  pressed  to  the  point  where  refusal  was 
impossible.)  "My  acquaintance  with  you  has  been  re- 
stricted to  one  sole  and  very  brief  occasion,  and  yet  I 
know  precisely  your  opinion  of  teas." 

At  that  moment  something  within  his  eyes  gleamed, 
and  she  saw  it.  It  flashed  in  sudden  response  to  the 
imp  within  her  own.  With  that  gleam  his  irritable  em- 
barrassment melted.  "At  least,"  whispered  her  imp  to 
Helen,  "he's  not  trying  to  get  away  just  now." 

In  the  moment's  pause,  she  obseiTed  him  swiftly.  How 
distinguished  he  appeared,  she  suddenly  realized — some- 
how he  towered,  by  mere  personality,  above  others.  The 
carelessness  of  dress  which  she  had  noted  on  an  office 
day  had  disappeared;  he  stood  before  her,  a  fine  and 


COFFEE  FOR  TWO  AT  THE  SPINDLE     139 

dignified  figure,  conventionally  attired,  perfectly  groomed. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  still  with  that  gleam,  "I  may 
have  given  you  reason  to  think  of  me  as  a  churl."  It 
was  not  apologetic;  it  was  amused. 

"I  think  of  you  as  a  man.  By  which  sign  I  know  that 
you  would  enjoy  a  cup  of  that  coffee" — she  sniffed  the 
air  in  suggestive  enticement — ^*'if  you  could  get  it  in  some 
quiet  spot  where  you  would  not  be  trampled  to  earth, 
and  where  you  would  not  be  chattered  at  by  ten  at  a 
time,  and  where  you  could  sit  comfortably  at  a  table. 
It's  in  man's  nature  to  resent  having  to  poise  a  cup 
and  plate  in  midair,  while  accepting  a  sandwich  with  one 
hand  and  cake  with  the  other,  like  a  Japanese  juggler 
manipulating  his  balls." 

She  saw  the  swift  response  in  his  eyes.  It  flashed  at 
her  as  if  she  were  temptation  incarnate  for  that  instant. 
Then  he  wavered 

*'There  is  a  little  tea-room  upstairs,  never  used  dur- 
ing these  big  functions,"  she  pursued  softly.  "You  will 
be  safe  there  from  discovery — a  maid  will  bring  us  coffee 
— really,  I  am  in  need  of  a  cup,  and  my  headache  refuses 
to  face  that  crowded  room.  There  are  times  when  I 
can't  mingle  with  a  throng  of  humans  without  realizing 
that  they  don't  differ  one  whit  from  any  cage  or  pit 
in  the  Bronx  Zoo  at  the  feeding  hour.  And  now  I  appeal 
to  your  sympathy  as  a  physician  to  see  thaty  I  have  my 
coffee  in  quiet " 

Small-talking,  she  had  led  the  way  down  a  side  hall, 
and  into  an  automatic  elevator.  Dr.  Aspden  was  follow- 
ing.    Upon  his  lips,  moving  again  and  again  to  speak. 


140   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

there  appeared  protestations;  but  the  protestations  failed 
to  find  their  opportunity. 

Helen  summoned  a  passing  maid.  "Bring  us  coffee — 
sandwiches — everjrthing  there  is — for  two.  In  the  tea- 
room." And  the  little  elevator  sprang  into  flight  at  her 
touch. 

Minutes  later  they  faced  one  another  from  deep-cush- 
ioned chairs  across  a  small  table.  Speech  tarried;  but 
imp  met  imp  in  eyes. 

"Well.?"  Helen  opened  at  last. 

"Well,  indeed !  I,  a  middle-aged  physician  with  a  repu- 
tation for  integrity,  having  already  bidden  my  original 
hostess  good-bye  and  hastened  away  from  her  hospitality, 
find  myself  here!" 

Her  elbows  were  on  the  table,  her  chin  rested  in  her 
palms.  A  slender  mirror  behind  Dr.  Aspden  showed  Helen 
herself  in  panel  framing;  the  sketch  vividly  incisive,  an 
impression  of  impudent  eyes  and  earrings  jettily  twinkling 
between  upcrowding  furs  and  forward-tilting  hat.  A 
vision  of  Dr.  Aspden's  original  hostess  rose,  a  moment's 
imaging  of  that  lady  as  she  would  appear  did  she  know 
the  truth — florid,  flurried,  cacklingly  indignant,  shrill 
with  outrage — and  Helen  saw  her  own  imp  in  the  mirror 
fairly  putting  thumb  to  nose. 

"But  now  that  you  are  here,"  she  said,  "now  that 
you've    signed   your    contract   with   Mephisto,    and    are 

here" she  waved  a  hand  that  took  in  the  alluring  room 

with  its  half-dozen  restfully  vacant  tables,  the  gay 
draperies  delightfully  carrying  out  the  color  scheme  of 
a  tall  screen,  the  cheery  plate  shelves,  the  windows  over- 


COFFEE  FOR  TWO  AT  THE  SPINDLE     141 

Jlooking  old  and  ordered  gardens — "now  that  the  die  is 
cast,  confess,"  ordered  Helen,  "that  you  like  it !" 

"That  I  like  it  is,  I  believe,  what  is  disturbing  me  most." 
And  across  the  table  the  two  imps,  more  perilous  imps 
by  far  than  those  that  wigwag  from  younger  eyes,  made 
signal  of  mutual  and  delectable  wickedness. 

"Don't  let  it  disturb  you!  The  sign  of  the  true  epi- 
cure in  sinning  is  tliat  he  never  foretastes  his  repentance 
while  the   sin   is    still   freshly   plucked   and   sweet." 

"Believe  me,  I'll  not  spoil  the  flavor  of  this  fruit 
by  any  foretaste  of  repentance!  Perhaps,  on  second 
thoughts,  my  disturbance  comes  from  the  knowledge  that 
I'm  never  going  to  repent." 

"You  can  drown  even  that  in  the  cup."  Maid  and  tray 
were  at  the  door.  The  burnished  pot  with  its  slender 
spout  gave  forth  a  steam  of  pungency;  dainty  cups  were 
set  forth;  sandwiches  and  cakes  were  placed  at  hand, 
and  the  two  were  left  alone  once  more. 

And  now  he  suddenly  relaxed,  as  if  giving  way  com- 
pletely to  the  seduction  of  it  all.  "It's  shameless  and 
it's  jolly!" 

Filling  his  cup,  "There's  a  curious  effect  these  nerv- 
ous headaches  of  mine  always  produce,"  she  informed 
him.  '*They  make  me  shameless.  I  have  never  yet  come 
through  one  of  them  without  blackening  my  record  to 
a  still  inkier  shade.  And  now,  to  eclipse  all  former  sins, 
I  have  abducted  the  guest  of  a  fellow  club  member!" 

"To  say  nothing  of  adding  the  burden  of  his  sin  to 
your  own." 

"Adam!" 

"My  utmost  flattery  is  to  retort  by  calling  you  'Eve.' 


142   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

I  have  always  felt  Eve  to  be  the  primary  argument  for 
suffrage,  the  great  original  proof  of  woman's  power  of 
initiative.  It  was  she  first  knew  a  good  thing  when 
she  saw  it;  it  was  she  had  the  courage  to  take 
it;  and  she  was  generous  enough  to  pass  it  on. 
It  was  sporting  of  her,  too,  not  to  throw  back 
Adam's  words  at  him;  she  could  have  called  him  a  liar, 
could  have  declared  that  he  passed  the  apple,  and  there 
would  have  been  only  his  word  against  hers " 

"But  hers  wouldn't  have  been  credited.  Being  a  woman, 
her  statement  would  never  have  been  believed." 

"Not  believed,  but  accepted.  It's  a  matter  of  cour- 
tesy to  accept  a  woman's  statement  against  a  man's. 
Eve  must  have  known  that — every  woman  knows  such 
things.  So  it  comes  to  this:  she  simply  refused  to  avail 
herself  of  the  privilege  at  her  husband's  expense." 

Helen  mused.  Then  the  panel  sketch  flashed  back  at 
her  a  sudden  audacity,  flashed  mischief 

"How  then,  is  it,"  she  inquired,  "that,  cherishing  so 
great  an  admiration  for  the  first  Eve,  you  have  never 
succumbed  to  any  of  her  successors  ?" 

He  was  spared  an  answer.  The  sound  of  approach- 
ing chatter  came  up  the  stairs.  There  were  deep  male 
voices  in  the  background,  and  against  them,  m  bright 
relief,  the  soprano  laughter  and  ecstatics  of  women. 

"Dear  me !"  Helen  became  uneasy.  "I  thought  a  South 
Sea  island  couldn't  be  safer  than  this  to-day!  This 
floor  is  never  used  except  on  week-days.  The  other  rooms 
are  rented  for  studios"^ — the  voices  were  drawing  ever 
nearer — "It  sounds — '*  She  gasped,  and  rose,  catching 
her  breath — "It  sounds  like — ^like — Mrs.  Hobson " 


COFFEE  FOR  TWO  AT  THE  SPINDLE     143 

Dr.    Aspden    also    rose.      "It — is   Mrs.    Hobson,"    he 
breathed. 


in 


They  stood  opposite,  staring  in  blank  fellow-confu- 
sion into  one  another's  face.  And  while  they  stared, 
the  voices — ^above  all,  that  one  voice — approached  nearer 
and  nearer,  like  doom. 

"Charming  little  studio,"  they  heard  her  down  the 
hall.  "I  use  it  for  my  classes  in  dramatic  expression. 
So  inspiring — that  view  of  the  rose  arbor  and  fountain — 
B»  quaint — -a  fountain!"  Murmurs  and  exclamations 
approved  the  fountain. 

Helen  leaned  forward  across  the  table.  "A  second 
more,"  she  whispered,  "and  she'll  be  upon  us!" 

Dr.  Aspden  too  leaned  forward,  until  their  eyes  were 
separated  by  only  inches. 

"Eve,"  his  whisper  demanded  desperately,  "have  you 
no  resource — ^no  trees  of  the  garden  amongst  which  we 
may  hide — this  time?" 

For  a  wild  moment  her  eyes  beat  against  the  four 
walls  of  perilous  captivity.  Then,  "There's  notliing  less 
banal,"  she  told  him  in  horror,  "than  the  screen !" 

He  glanced  at  it,  lifted  his  hands  in  a  gesture  of  mar- 
tyred helplessness  that  seemed  to  groan,  "And  Fate 
heaps  this  insult  upon  the  dignity  of  a  sober  middle- 
aged  man !"     But  he  bowed  to  the  yoke. 

"Time-worn  farce  shift,  I  submit!"  he  murmured.  He 
paused.  "But  this.'^"  and  he  pointed  to  the  abandoned 
feast  for  two. 


144   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"Leave  that  to  me."  She  clapped  shut  the  screen's 
fold  upon  him,^  and  only  in  the  nick  of  time.  Mrs.  Hob- 
son's  party  descended. 

"And  this  is  our  bewitching  tea-room,"  that  lady 
guided.  "Oh — why,  Mrs.  Kent!  So  sorry!  I  thought 
the  room  was  never  used  on  Sunday!"  Mrs.  Hobson's 
prominent  eyes  took  in  the  table  and  rested  with  inter- 
est upon  Helen.  Behind  her  half  a  dozen  grouped  them- 
selves ;  some  of  the  young  people  had  followed  in  restless 
curiosity,  and  among  them  was  Bee. 

"Of  course  I  never  dreamed  of  intruding!"  pressed 
Mrs.  Hobson,  nevertheless  leading  on  into  the  room. 

"I  assure  you  it's  only  a  pleasure  to  share  this  de- 
lightful view."  Helen  waved  her  hand  hospitably  toward 
the;  garden.  "I  was  too  tired  for  the  dining-room,  and 
so  I  had  my  coffee  served  here."  She  watched  Mrs.  Hob- 
son's  eyes  count  cups. 

"So  kind  of  you  to  let  us  come  in.  Over  there" —  Mrs. 
Hobson  addressed  her  guests  as  if  they  were  on  a  Cook's 
Tour — ".you  get  a  glimpse  of  the  old  church — so  quaint !" 
She  led  them  to  the  windows.  "And  here — "  her  hand 
clasped  the  edge  of  the  screen:  she  was  about  to  draw 
its  folds  back  to  make  room  for  the  sight-seers 

It  was  a  moment  for  any  hazard — and  Helen  haz- 
arded. With  ostentatious  stealth  she  jogged  Mrs.  Hob- 
son's  elbow.  The  others  were  all  intent  upon  the  gardens 
below.  Mrs.  Hobson  turned,  sta3^ed  her  hand;  her  e^'es 
inquired. 

Detesting  the  subterfuge,  but  driven,  Helen  glanced 
significantly  toward  Bequita;  then  lingered  over  a  deep 
wink. 


COFFEE  FOR  TWO  AT  THE  SPINDLE    145 

In  delighted  response  to  the  confidence,  Mrs.  Hobson 
raised  questioning  eyebrows,  and  delivered  herself  of  an 
answering  wink  that  descended  with  a  fulsome  flap,  rose, 
hovered,  flapped  again. 

"Ah!"  She  bent  close  to  whisper.  *V^  comprendsT* 
Her  large  white  kid  forefinger  tapped  her  compressed 
lips.  *'A  little  tete-a-tete!  When — horror  of  horrors ! — 
enters  the  guileless  daughter!  The  ingenue!  Delicious, 
my  dear!  So  French!  Rely  upon  me,  you  are  safe!" 
She  whirled  away  from  the  screen,  giving  off  a  vast  pufF 
of  sandalwood  scent  with  the  whirl. 

"And  now,  my  dear  friends,  we  must  go  downstairs, 
to  have  one  more  word  with  Mr.  Sinclair  before  he  bids 
us  farewell.  Do  show  the  young  people  the  way,  Rebe- 
quita  darling,"  she  proposed  in  a  sudden  intimacy  en- 
gendered by  the  complicity  into  which  she  had  been 
drawn  with  Rebequita's  parent.  Driving  her  guests  out 
ahead,  she  paused  for  one  more  unctuous  whisper: 

^'Delicious,  I  repeat,  my  dear!  One  thirsts  so  for  a 
French  note  in  this  dull  American  propriety !  A  deux — 
the  sudden  peril — the  lovely  young  daughter,  sweet  inno- 
cent, arriving  unexpectedly — exquisite!  My  dear,  you 
can  trust  me  as  a  sister !  But  I  must  have  my  reward !" 
She  ahook  a  playful  finger.  "I  must  hear  some  day 
who  he  is !"  And  with  one  more  wink,  which  descended 
upon  and  enfolded  the  secret  like  a  curtain,  she  rustled 
away. 

A^in  the  conspirators  stood  facing  each  other  across 
the  table. 

"The  wonderful  thing  about  you,"  Helen  stated,  pro- 
foundly   admiring,    "is    that    you    could   hide   behind    a 


146   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

screen — think  of  it — a  detestably  farcical  situation — ^you, 
a  distinguished  physician  of  eminently  respectable  de- 
meanor— and  still  retain  your  air  of  imperishable  dig- 
nity. Which  proves  that  your  dignity  is  no  mere  screen 
like  some  people's,  behind  which  self  may  hide." 

He  smiled.  "Probably  no  less  a  screen  than  others — • 
merely  less  transparent.  Only  a  very  opaque  one  would 
serve  in  your  presence,  I  fear." 

"At  any  rate,  you  deserve  a  second  cup  of  coffee.  Let's 
both  have  some  more!"  They  sank  with  sighs  of  relief 
into  the  willow  chairs. 

"You've  got  to  settle  down  and  stay,  you  see,  until 
I  make  sure  by  reconnoitering  that  Mrs.  Gwendolen  Elise 
Hobson  has  left  the  building,"  she  warned  him. 

"I'm  shamelessly  resigned.  So  let's  talk.  Talk 
about " 

"Yes.?" 

His  eyes  roamed  toward  the  window,  then  returned, 
and  rested  upon  her. 

"About  Adam  and  Eve,"  said  Dr.  Aspden. 


rv 


Helen,  starting  for  home  a  half-hour  later,  found 
that  Bee  had  already  gone.  The  fact  stirred  her  dis- 
comfiture; it  was  most  unlike  the  child  not  to  wait  for 
her,  or  run  in  to  say  so  if  she  were  leaving  with  the 
young  people.  There  was  constraint  in  this  silent  de- 
parture; in  it  Helen  saw  mirrored  her  own  escapade  as 
it  might  have  appeared  in  her  daughter's  eyes.  For 
Bee,   like  Mrs.   Hobson,   must  have   counted   cups  t 


COFFEE  FOR  TWO  AT  THE  SPINDLE     147 

She  felt  a  quick  heat  mounting  her  cheeks — ^Helen 
was  not  of  the  sensitive  temperament  that  tends  to  easy 
flushing.  The  very  fact  of  the  flush  increased  her  dis- 
comfiture. She  hurried  off  at  an  absurd  pace  to  the 
subway,  instead  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  stage,  impatient 
for  the  quicker  conveyance.  Helen  Kent  was  far  from 
admitting  to  herself,  nevertheless,  how  very  much  she 
desired  to  explain  her  escapade   to  her  own   daughter. 

"Home,  youngster.?"  She  heard  the  ingratiating  and 
somewhat  exaggerated  cheer  of  her  own  tone,  and  it 
rang  in  her  ears  rather  like  Bee's  voice  when  the  young- 
ster was  seeking  atonement  for  some  misdeed. 

'*Yes,  I'm  here."     The  tone  was  colourless. 

"Sorry  I  was  late,  dear,  but  I  couldn't  get  away  any 
sooner.  The  fact  is,  your  staid  parent,  who  is  already 
far  advanced  in  her  thirties,  as  you  are  well  aware,  con- 
trived to  let  herself  in  for  as  farcical  a  scrape  as  any 
high  school  miss.     My  child,  hear  my  tale." 

As  girl  to  girl,  and  with  the  keenest  relish,  Helen  set 
forth  her  adventure  in  full  .... 

"The  plot  thickens.  My  ingenue  daughter  enters,  and 
in  her  I  see  a  refuge.  I  feign  conspiracy  with  Mrs. 
Hobson,  who  swallows  the  bait  at  one  gulp.  .  .  ."  Un- 
consciously watching  the  gas  logs'  flicker,  Helen  was  rat- 
tling on  gleefully,  her  enjoyment  growing  as  the  whole 
adventure  reviewed  itself  amusingly  in  her  memory,  when 
Bee's  silence  caused  her  to  look  up.  Bee,  unsmiling, 
was  gazing  at  her  from  the  aloofness  of  mature  and  criti- 
cal observation. 

Helen  started.  Here  was  a  Bee  wholly  new.  She 
knew  the  buoyant  child  of  former  days;  she  had  lately 


148   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

come  to  know  a  depressed  girl  of  unhappy  broodings; 
but  here,  face  to  face,  sat  a  woman  who  calmly  and 
judicially  measured  her. 

Helen   closed  her  narrative   briefly   and   went   to   her 
room. 


Bee  sat  alone.  She  did  not  rise  to  light  the  lamp, 
though  the  gas  logs  did  feeble  duty  against  the  gather- 
ing dusk.  What  she  saw  was  not  the  darkness,  nor  yet 
the  prancing  flames  at  which  she  gazed.  It  was  Helen's 
face  that  glowed  into  hers. 

"She  isn't  thirty,  or  forty,  or  any  age,"  she  thought. 
**But  she  shines,  the  way  she  always  said  I  did  when  the 
happiest  things  were  happening.  She  isn't  Helen  to-night 
• — not  the  Helen  I  know,  that  is ;  she's  a  girl,  full  of  some- 
thing that  tingles,  and  she  doesn't  even  know  it. 

"Oh,  she  likes  him !  She  likes  him  terribly  much !  She 
could  never  look  like  that  if  she  didn't!" 

There  was  a  long  time  that  Bee  stared  on  at  the 
logs.  Darts  of  emerald  and  sapphire  and  topaz  and 
ruby  and  amethyst  shot  up  from  them  and  fell  back 
in  flickering  rhythm.  At  last  she  rose,  and  a  queer  hard- 
ness seemed  to  rise  with  her. 

"So  !  She  takes  her  fun  when  she  wants  it !  She  scoffs 
at  me  because  I  like  Philip  so  much,  and  she  drives 
him  off,  and  kills  my  happiness.  She  preaches  about 
a  fool's  paradise.  But  if  sh^  wants  to  like  one  man 
especially,  that's  another  matter,  I  suppose!" 


COFFEE  FOR  TWO  AT  THE  SPINDLE     149 

Bee's  lips  drew  abruptly  to  a  tight  line;  she  flung 
her  head. 

"She  can  forBid  my  seeing  Philip,  but  there's  one 
thing  she  can't  forbid.  I  won't  wait  any  longer.  I'm 
going  to  do  it — ta  do  it  to-morrow  I" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
BITTERSWEET  ALLEY 


THERE'S  one  thing  she  can't  forbid.  I  won't 
wait  any  longer." 
Since  Bee's  night  of  tempest,  during  the  days 
of  outward  passivity,  a  plan  had  hung  in  the  air,  ever 
present,  but  not  quite  shaping  into  resolve.  Now  at 
last,  following  the  Spindle  reception,  all  the  vague  dream- 
ings  and  schemings  had  taken  form. 

"I'll  have  my  dancing  in  spite  of  her!  Nobody  shall 
wreck  my  art,  whatever  happens  to  my  life!" 

It  was  Monday  afternoon,  and  Bee  was  free.  Miss 
Tinmions  happened  to  have  been  taken  obligingly  ill; 
Helen,  as  usual,  was  at  the  office.  Nothing  stood  in  the 
way.  Yes,  she  cried  to  herself,  Helen  could  tear  her 
and  Philip  apart,  could  crush  her  joy  as  it  was  unfold- 
ing; but  no  one  had  the  right  to  kill  her  art.  Just  here 
her  sense  of  honour  was  making  a  curious  distinction:  it 
recoiled  from  tlie  thought  of  a  clandestine  heart  affair, 
but  yielded  to  secrecy  where  art  and  labour,  instead 
of  the  self -most  personal  joy,  were  concerned. 

Yes,  this  plan  meant  secrecy.  It  meant  that  black 
and  haunted  forest  of  concealment  hitherto  unexplored, 

150 


BITTERSWEET  ALLEY  151 

unguessed  even,  in  the  sun-flooded  travelling  of  Bee's 
open  road.  She  was  turning  into  the  forest  path,  was 
choosing  its  lurking  presences  for  daily  companions. 
She  was  leaving  the  open  road  that  she  and  Helen  had 
trod  together.  Hereafter,  even  though  she  return,  they 
could  never  meet  without  some  shadow  of  that  forest 
entering  between  them.  Something  would  be  gone  for- 
ever from  the  exquisite  candour  of  that  one-time  ardent 
relation. 

But  all  this  Bee  did  not  know;  nor  would  she  have 
halted.  She  only  plunged  ahead  now,  like  a  wild  little 
stream  seeking  some  outlet,  dammed  back  but  finding 
its  channel  by  instinct,  rushing  toward  its  release.  The 
unwitting  Helen  had  cleared  away  the  last  obstruction, 
namely  the  habit  of  obedience.  For  weeks  this  obstruc- 
tion had  held,  though  crumbling;  but  now  it  had  gone 
down  with  a  final  crash,  while  the  wild  little  stream  tore 
through. 

"She  takes  her  fun  when  she  wants  it;  I'll  have  my 
art!" 

When  a  stream  is  making  its  own  channel  it  must 
force  a  bit  here,  a  bit  there,  zigzag,  nose,  shove,  creep, 
bound  over.  Its  instinct  is  to  push  ever  toward  the 
first  hint  of  an  opening.  And  that  opening  to  Bequita 
lay  in  remembered  words: 

"If  only  Zelie  could  teach  you!  She  lives  in  Bitter- 
sweet Alle3r.  .  .  ." 

For  som.e  mysterious  reason,  Philip  had  bitten  back 
bis  words  as  soon  as  uttered;  but  this  much  Bee  had 
caught.  Zelie  (surname  missed)  must  be  a  dancer  who 
gave  lessons.    And  she  could  be  found.     She  could  teach 


152   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Bee's  importunate  toes  the  technique  for  which  they 
3^earned.  That  another  prompting  drew  Bequita  toward 
Bittersweet  Alley,  her  conscious  mind  never  guessed :  that 
deep  within  her  hidden  soul  something  less  obvious  but 
far  more  potent  than  the  wish  for  dancing  lessons  tugged 
her  like  an  undertow  toward  this  Zelie. 

She  was  primed  for  the  adventure.  She  had  looked 
up  Bittersweet  Alley  on  the  map,  had  found  it  caught 
in  a  cobwebby  tangle  of  ancient  downtown  streets. 
Thrilled  at  her  own  daring,  she  set  out  to  find  her  way 
alone  in  this  quaint  and  haunted  storeroom  of  old  New 
York  tradition. 


A  labyrinth  of  small  streets,  "Places,"  courts  and  al- 
leys stretched  on  all  sides.  Jaded  and  faded,  the  red 
brick  dwellings  of  other  days  now  displayed  faint-hearted 
business  signs,  such  as  "Feathers  a  Specialty,"  or  "Lunch 
Room.  25  Cents,"  or  "Tony.  Ice,  Coal,  Wood,"  or 
"Lamparella  the  Tailor.  Ladies  and  Gents."  One  sign 
read  "Two  for  Tea  Room,"  and  behind  the  shabby  ex- 
terior Bee  caught  a  glimpse  of  leaf-green  curtains  and 
lavender  tables  in  array.  Once-dignified  residences 
sprouted  dirty  children  at  every  window  and  door,  like 
garden  plots  given  up  to  overriding  little  weeds.  Strings 
of  parti-coloured  washings  hung  about ;  lean  cats  skulked, 
wearing  an  expression  of  being  misunderstood.  In  the 
midst  of  this  labyrinth  wandered  Bee. 

The  map  seemed  to  have  no  bearing  upon  the  maze. 
Into  one  letter-L  of  a  street  she  would  turn,  down  tlie 


BITTERSWEET  ALLEY  153 

letter-V  of  another,  skirting  tiny  "squares,"  as  dabs  of 
dingy  grass  were  named,  searching  signs,  entering  and 
withdrawing  from  queer,  trap-Hke  courts.  Over  and  over 
she  put  her  question — "Can  you  tell  me  where  to  find 
Bittersweet  Alley?"  One  old  woman  had  declared  that 
it  "would  be  just  around  that  comer";  another  had  flath' 
contradicted  by  insisting  that  it  "was  back  a  ways.  .  .  ." 
Ah,  the  sign,  at  a  rusty  iron  gate — Bittersweet  Alley 
at  last! 

The  corpse  of  a  long-forgotten  fountain  lingered  in 
the  centre  of  the  "alley,"  which  was  in  reality  a  court, 
and  from  it  grass  had  sprouted,  grown  lank  and  dangling 
like  hair  upon  the  dead.  Bee  followed  the  cracked  walk 
up  between  aged  brick  dwellings ;  there  being  only  a 
dozen  of  these,  it  was  a  short  matter  to  find  the  doorbell 
she  sought.  **Zelie  Barrajas"  was  the  curious  French- 
Spanish  combination  inscribed  above  one  of  the  bells 
in  the  doorway  of  number  5^2 ;  and  now  the  door  was 
opening  to  her  nervous  ringing,  and  she  was  making  her 
way  upstairs. 

At  the  head  of  the  first  flight  she  paused,  peering 
with  some  trepidation  beyond.  It  was  spooky  lonesome, 
Bee  told  herself.  But  her  trepidation  was  not  to  end 
with  the  ending  of  the  lonesomeness.  For,  after  a  silence, 
came  the  clattering  of  a  door  above,  then  the  explosion 
of  a  voice  from  dim  regions.  Like  the  crack  of  a  pistol 
it  reported  through  the  halls : 

"Who  the  devil's  jerking  my  bell,  anyway?"  And  next, 
like  peppering  shots,  came  a  series  of  words  in  unknown 
languages,  but  strongly  suggesting  oaths^. 

Bee  cast  her  eyes  up  to   discern   a   slender  form  in 


154   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

what  seemed  a  gypsy  costume.  A  short,  full  skirt  hov- 
ered above  bare  ankles ;  the  feet  attached  to  these  ankles 
were  thrust  into  bath  slippers,  and  as  Bee  stammered 
and  failed  to  bring  forth  an  intelligible  reply,  one  of 
the  feet  gave  a  kick  in  token  of  impatience.  At  the 
kick,  its  slipper  flew;  the  slipper  grazed  Bee's  cheek  in 
its  wild  descent  through  space,  and  fell  on,  thudding  in 
the  hall  far  below. 

At  this  the  voice  burst  into  laughter.  "Nearly  took 
you  in  the  eye,  didn't  it?  Wish  it  had.  I  won't  be 
interrupted  while  I'm  practising,  I  tell  you,  whoever  you 
are.     So  clear  out!" 

Quaking,  Bee  hesitated  between  parley  and  flight.  But 
her  longing  got  the  better  of  her  fear. 

"I — I  won't  detain  you  long!"  she  begged.  "If  only 
I  could  see  you  a  few  minutes  on — on  business!'* 

From  the  explosive  snort  of  rage  it  appeared  that  a 
more  violent  dismissal  was  to  follow;  but  at  that  moment 
Miss  Barrajas  leaned  over,  peering  more  keenly  at  her 
guest,  and  her  mood  changed  like  a  gust  of  capricious 
wind. 

"Say,  you  are  the  peach  sundae,  all  right,  aren't  you? 
Who  the  devil  are  you,  anyway?  Come  up  and  let's 
have  a  look  at  you!" 

Bee's  surprising  hostess  led  the  way  into  a  long, 
sparsely  furnished  room  and  flung  herself  out  in  a  cat- 
like sprawl  upon  the  couch,  from  which  vantage-point 
she  studied  her  guest  with  insolent  deliberation.  Bee, 
in  turn,  studied  her  hostess.  She  saw  vivid  eyes  of  a 
reddish-brown  cast;  such  an  exact  match  for  the  hair 


BITTERSWEET  ALLEY  155 

which  hung  loose  from  the  scarlet  twist  of  the  gypsy 
cap,  that  Bee  caught  herself  wondering  which  Nature 
had  chosen  to  match  the  other?  And  next  she  fell  to 
wondering  how  any  being  as  "skinny  thin"  as  her  hostess 
could  be  so  devoid  of  angles — nothing  but  curves  from 
top  to  toe — the  long,  lean  shoulders,  stem-hke  arms  and 
wrists,  legs  bare  below  the  knees,  without  a  sharp  comer 
anywhere;  all  like  a  long  ribbon  that  you  catch  up  and 
fling  out  and  undulate  and  let  lie.  And  still  she  stood 
— ^not  having  been  offered  a  seat — ^while  Miss  Barrajas 
scrutinised  her. 

The  red-brown  orbs  having  travelled  over  her  face, 
form,  hat,  and  shoes,  they  brought  up  at  last  eye  to 
eye. 

"Well — my  original  question  still  holds  good.  Who 
the  devil  are  3^ou,  anyway?"  The  voice  was  soft  now — 
the  same  voice  that  had  exploded  in  a  similar  question 
so  shortly  before. 

"I'm  Bee." 

**Bec.  Who's  Bee?  Throw  a  light  on  your  mysterious 
presence,  my  fair  one.  What  brought  you  hither,  if 
I  may  venture  to  inquire  ?  Bittersweet  Alley  isn't  in  your 
neighborhood — that's  certain.    How  did  you  hear  of  me?" 

Bee   stammered.      "I — I   heard   someone  mention   you 

as  a  dancer "    She  stopped  in  distress.     She  had  not 

been  prepared  for  this  inquiry,  and  an  instinctive  dis- 
cretion warned  her  against  mentioning  Philip. 

Zelie  noted  her  embarrassment  with  shrewd  eyes,  but 
let  the  matter  drop.  "Well,  what  are  you  after?"  she 
went  on.     "Come  across  with  it." 


156   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

*'It's — it's  my  dancing  I  want  to  talk  over  with  you. 
You  see,  I  want  so  much  to  learn !  And  if  you'll  only  take 
me  as  a  pupil ^" 

"Aha !"  The  voice  sprang  raucous,  like  that  of  a  crea- 
ture pouncing  on  prey.  Bee  was  beginning  to  realise 
that  the  voice  was  perhaps  Ihe  most  astounding  feature 
of  this  Zelie,  leaping  from  mood  to  mood,  as  it  did,  with 
feline  agility.  "So  that's  it !  Not  much !  I've  got  a 
little  Russian  dance  job  at  present,  though  I'm  still 
waiting  for  the  golden  opportunity — so  I  don't  have 
to  count  one-two-three  for  young  idiots  who  imagine 
they're  the  Isadora  Duncans  and  Ruth  St.  Denises  of 
the  future.  I  suppose  you  want  to  wear  a  Grecian  robe 
while  you  carry  an  undernourished  jug  on  one  shoulder 
and  drape  the  other  arm  like  a  weeping-willow " 

"But  I  don't  think  you'd  find  me  stupid — "  Bee 
endeavoured  to  break  in  with  faint  protest.  But  the 
wrath  of  her  hostess  was  working  itself  up  to  so  high  a 
pitch  that  she  heard  nothing.     She  stormed  furiously  on. 

"I'm  done  with  teaching  forever,  I  tell  you!  If  I  lose 
my  job  of  dancing,  I'd  rather  take  in  washing — you  can 
jump  up  and  down  on  the  washing's  prostrate  form 
when  you  feel  that  way.  One  of  my  pupils  couldn't  tell 
her  fingers  from  her  toes.  Another  one  flapped  her  arms 
as  if  somebody  had  dropped  her  into  the  East  River, 
and  I  wished  to  goodness  they  had.    Never  again,  say  I !" 

Bee  turned  away  in  discouragement.  "I  suppose  it's 
no  use  then.  I  had  it  all  planned,  how  I'd  pay  for  les- 
sons out  of  my  allowance,  and  skimp  on  milk  chocolate 
and  silk  stockings.     And  it  would  be  an  investment  for 


BITTERSWEET  ALLEY  157 

you,  besides — I  thought  that  when  I  got  to  earning,  a 
percentage  would  come  to  you — perhaps  five  or  six  per- 
cent." (Thus  commercial  school  training  had  superim- 
posed itself  upon  art.)  "But  I  see  it's  no  use.  Please 
excuse  me  for  interrupting  you."  She  tightened  her 
boa  for  departure. 

But  at  the  "five  or  six  percent,"  Miss  Barrajas  had 
burst  into  a  revel  of  laughter.  She  flung  her  arms  over 
the  back  of  the  couch;  she  draped  her  ribbon-like  per- 
son over  them,  suggesting  the  sheer  prostration  of  mirth ; 
then  of  a  sudden  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  in  one 
pirouetting  step  was  across  the  room  and  pouncing  upon 
Bee,  who  met  the  pounce  in  consternation.  If  a  moun- 
tain lioness  had  attacked  her  during  one  of  her  Cali- 
fornia camping  trips,  the  pounce  and  her  shock  would 
have  differed  very  little  from  these. 

But  the  next  instant  told  Bee  that  her  eyes  remained 
in  their  sockets,  her  limbs  were  not  sundered.  Instead, 
Zelie's  arms  entwined  her  as  softly  as  her  own  feather 
boa;  Zelie's  kiss  alighted  on  her  cheek  and  was  gone. 
Another  instant,  and  her  hostess  was  standing  off  and 
gazing  at  her  with  a  merry  tenderness  that  was  fairly 
maternal. 

"You  are  a  peach  sundae,  and  no  mistake  t  Five  or 
six  percent!  Bless  the  baby!  I  suppose  you  see  me 
supporting  my  own  limousine  on  the  interest  from  this 
'investment' !  Oh,  you  are  in  the  prize  winner  of  the  Baby 
Show,  and  I  can't  help  liking  you  to  save  my  life!" 

Bee's  impulse  was  to  resent  this;  but  desire  made  her 
cunning. 


158   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"Then  if  you  like  me,  couldn't  you,  oh,  wouldn't  you, 
give  me  lessons  ?" 

Again  Miss  Barrajas's  indignation  rose.  "Nary  a 
lesson!  I've  got  my  own  career  to  worry  about,  not 
other  people's.  I  ought  to  be  practising  this  minute!" 
she  screamed  in  annoyance.  She  dashed  to  the  mirror, 
and  adjusted  cap  and  skirt.  "Where  on  earth's  my 
tambourine  ?" 

"That  looks  like  a  tambourine,"  Bee  suggested  doubt- 
fully, pointing  to  a  vessel  from  which  a  fat  tortoise- 
shell  cat  was  lapping  milk. 

"Sure  enough!  I  couldn't  find  a  dish  that  wasn't 
broken,  so  I  put  her  dinner  in  it,"  Zelie  recollected.  Slap- 
ping away  the  animal,  she  poured  from  the  window  what 
scanty  lappings  were  left,  and  tossed  the  tambourine 
on  high.  She  started  toward  the  phonograph;  but  at 
that  moment  something  tragic  in  Bee's  eyes,  something 
quivering  in  Bee's  lips,  arrested  her. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  said.  "Go  ahead  and  show  me  your 
stunt.  I  know  you  won't  be  at  peace  till  you  get  it 
out  of  your  system.  Then  I  can  tell  you  that  *your 
talent  is  remarkable,  but  owing  to  many  engagements 
at  present,'  and  so  forth.  Go  ahead!"  With  a  yawn 
as  wide  and  withering  as  that  of  the  tortoise-shell  cat, 
Zelie  gathered  that  animal  to  herself  upon  the  couch 
and  lay  back,  fondling  it  so  tenderly  as  to  blot  out  all 
memory  of  the  recent  slapping.  The  cat,  humming  like 
an  airplane,  curled  into  her  arm,  and  together  the  emer- 
ald and  the  red-brown  eyes  blinked  in  bored  tolerance 
at  Bequita. 

"All  ready!    Come  on!" 


BITTERSWEET  ALLEY  159 

m 

The  invitation  was  not  inspiring,  and  Bee  hesitated. 
"I  can't  truly  say  that  I  have  a  'stunt.'  I've  never  had 
a  teacher,  and  I've  never  been  allowed  to  see  much  danc- 
ing. So  I've  made  up  things.  I  dance  what  comes  into 
my  head,  but  my  feet  are  very  ignorant." 

"Humph !  If  more  dancers  used  their  heads  and  occa- 
sionally forgot  their  feet,  it  might  be  an  improvement," 
Miss  Barrajas  grunted  in  approbation. 

"But  I  don't  know  the  ABCs  of  technique.  Anybody 
can  think  up  ideas  for  dances,  I  suppose." 

"Anybody  can't.  Probably  you  can't,  either.  It  takes 
genius  to  originate.  Anybody  with  a  flexible  body  can 
acquire  technique." 

"But  the  ideas  just  come  of  themselves!" 

Zelie  shrugged.  "Well — since  we're  in  the  presence 
of  the  great  idea-manufacturer,  we  tremble  with  antici- 
pation, don't  we,  Villageoise  ?"  And  the  cat  gave  back 
her  wink.  But  there  was  malice  in  neither  the  emerald 
nor  the  red-brown  eye,  only  half-amused  ennui. 

Although  encouragement  was  lacking,  Bequita  set  her 
lips  in  determination  to  carry  out  her  purpose.  She 
slipped  off  wraps  and  hat,  and  donned  a  pair  of  satin 
sandals  from  her  handbag.  *'My  mother  gave  me  these 
long  ago,  when  she  liked  having  me  dance  for  fun,"  she 
explained.  "Afterwards,  she  never  let  me  have  another 
pair.  I  am  here  without  her  knowledge  or  consent," 
she  stated  formally,  as  though  honour  demanded  the 
truth. 

She  was  unconscious  of  the  pathos   of  the  outworn, 


160  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

outgrown  slippers.  Cousin  Ress,  coming  upon  them  one 
day  and  learning  their  story,  had  gone  home  to  declare 
violently,  "They  are  veritable  symbols  of  that  young- 
ster's soul-struggle!  They  look  as  if  the  puppy  had 
dragged  them  over  a  ten-acre  lot,  and  I'll  wager  her 
poor  little  hopes  would  look  the  same  way  if  we  could 
see  them.  Helen  Kent's  the  smartest  member  of  the  whole 
family,  and  the  darnedest  fool  it  possesses." 

"And  now,"  said  Bequita,  shy  but  resolute,  "I'll  show 
you  a  dance  I  made  last  summer,  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 
It's  different  from  the  Atlantic.  Everybody  laughs  at 
me  for  saying  that  you'd  know  the  Pacific  is  a  bigger 
ocean  just  to  look  at  it,  but  that's  the  truth.  They  say 
you  can  only  tell  its  bigness  by  looking  at  the  map. 
But  that's  because  most  people  see  everything  the  way 
it  looks  on  a  map,  or  in  a  book,  or  by  some  rule — never 
the  inside  way.  I  think  a  great  ocean  is  like  a  great 
person — it  doesn't  make  as  much  noise  and  fuss  as  the 
little  one,  but  you  feel  something  strong  and  splendid, 
something  that  you  can  rest  on." 

"The  funniest  kiddie  yet,"  Zelie  informed  the  assent- 
ing cat. 

"And  so,"  Bee  pressed  on,  absorbed  and  unheeding, 
"one  day  I  was  all  alone  on  the  beach — it  was  so  sunny 
that  the  sand  looked  like  hot  snow — and  I  had  been 
in  bathing,  and  when  I  came  out  I  lay  on  the  sand  to 
dry,  and  I  played  I  was  kelp.  That's  the  seaweed  we 
have  out  there,  very  long  and  traily.  I  began  to  feel  into 
the  seaweed.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean  by  feeling  into 
things?     Nobody  ever  does,  though  they  pretend  to — 


BITTERSWEET  ALLEY  161 

they  say,  *How  very  interesting,  yes,  indeed!"  and  then 
they  make  me  tiredr  she  burst  out  passionately. 

If  Zelie  understood  anything  of  this  groping,  child- 
like mysticism;  of  the  yearning  artist  imagination  seek- 
ing oneness  with  nature,  with  the  self-expression  of  the 
universal  meaning,  she  gave  no  sign. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  "fire  away  with  the  reflections 
of  a  piece  of  seaweed  on  the  destiny  of  man,  and  its 
philosophical  contemplation  of  the  whichness  of  the 
what!" 

But  some  intuition  told  Bee  that  there  was  no  offense 
in  this  joking;  that  beneath  the  crackling  surface  of  it, 
Zelie  in  some  way  responded  dimly  to  her  clumsily  ex- 
pressed desire  for  an  increased  and  a  subtler  conscious- 
ness of  life  in  its  manifestations. 

"I  want  a  simple  little  waltz,  something  as  quiet  as 
a  lullaby,"  Bee  said,  quickly  arranging  the  phonograph 
for  herself.  Then  with  a  long,  soft  toss  of  her  whole 
kelp-like  body,  she  all  at  once  flung  herself,  as  into  the 
swinging  sea. 

IV 

Zelie  was  kneeling  before  Bee,  clasping  her  waist  with 
ribbony  arms. 

"You  are  divine!  You  are  an  angel  straight  down 
from  heaven !  You  are  the  wonder-kiddie  of  the  age !" 
Tears  hovered  against  her  red-brown  lashes.  "I  kneel 
to  you — ^me,  what  am  I?  As  to  teaching  you — do  you 
suppose  I'd  presume  to  give  you  a  lesson  .f*" 

Bee  gazed,  honestly  confounded.  "But  I  don't  know 
anything.     Pm  an  ignoramus.     I  suppose  it  would  bore 


162   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

you  too  much  to  give  me  a  little  technique,  and  I  won't 
bother  jou  any  more  by  begging  for  lessons,  but  I  don't 
think  I'd  be  impossible  if  I  were  brushed  up  a  bit." 

^'Impossible !  Brushed  up!  Why,  you're  a  genius, 
child.  In  heaven's  name,  don't  you  know  it?  You're 
the  one  to  teach  the  rest  of  us.  We  can  learn  to  fold 
ourselves  like  a  strip  of  paper,  and  we  can  train  our 
toes  to  stand  alone  like  performing  dogs,  and  we  can 
accommodate  ourselves  to  anything  from  a  Chopin  move- 
ment to  a  fandango,  but  how  many  of  us  have  anything 
to  telly  I'd  like  to  know.'*  You  aren't  *expert.'  But 
you're  the  kind  that  comes  down  out  of  the  skies  with- 
out knowing  there  are  rules  and  regulations  here  below, 
and  makes  the  world  sit  up  and  take  notice."  With  this 
she  stood  off  again,  and  again  made  a  pounce  upon  Bee, 
"You  darling!"  she  almost  sobbed.  "I  love  3^ou!  Yes, 
actually,  I  love  you!  I  don't  hand  out  much  of  that 
currency- — ^my  affection.  Found  long  ago  that  the  inter- 
est was  never  paid,  and  the  principal  couldn't  be  got 
back  when  I  wanted  it  to  invest  somewhere  else.  But 
nobody  on  earth  could  resist  youV  Again  her  caress 
alighted  for  an  instant,  then  flitted  away,  like  the  light- 
est of  butterflies. 

But  Bee  was  thoughtful.  She  shook  her  head.  "It's 
awfully  good  of  you  to  like  my  dancing,  and  to  say  these 
kind  things.     But  I  know  how  much  I  don't  know." 

"Another  proof  of  genius." 

"No.  Only  of  common  sense.  I'm  clumsy.  I  have  the 
idea,  I  see  what  I  want  to  do,  but  it's  as  if  I'd  been 
given  tools  that  I  didn't  know  how  to  handle  skilfully." 

Zelie  nodded,   though  reluctant  to   admit   any  quali- 


BITTERSWEET  ALLEY  163 

fication  of  her  praise.  "I  do  see  what  you  mean.  A 
little  technical  training  would  help  you  to  find  muscles 
that  you  don't  know  you  have,  perhaps.  Well — I  feel 
as  if  my  job  ought  to  be  washing  dishes  from  the  table 
that's  set  for  you,  but  if  my  tips  are  worth  anything, 
they're  yours  for  the  taking.  I'm  good  on  technique: 
I've  been  through  the  grind.'* 

And  now  they  fell  to  planning.  In  an  ecstatic  half- 
hour  of  turbulent  talk  the  lessons  were  arranged.  Project 
after  project  tumbled  forth,  one  upon  the  heels  of  an- 
other. There  was  almost  a  wrangle  when  Zelie  declared 
that  she  would  take  no  money,  "not  a  red  cent  from 
your  blessed  little  pocket-book,  you  divine  kiddie."  In 
the  end  Bee  sagely  appeared  to  resign  the  quarrel,  with 
an  inner  resolve  to  make  her  teacher  take  a  recompense  as 
soon  as  her  own  earnings  should  begin. 

What  hours  they  would  spend  together!  Bee's  school 
would  claim  only  two  afternoons  a  week  after  this,  so 
she  would  be  free  during  much  of  Helen's  absence.  They 
would  go  to  see  the  great  dancers.  They  would  read  to- 
gether the  wonderful  books  about  dancing  in  other  coun- 
tries— ^books  which  Bee  had  found  in  the  library,  and  of 
which  Zelie  had  never  heard.  And  how  they  would  im- 
provise, and  criticise  each  other — only  how  could  they 
ever  criticise,  when  each  held  the  firm  conviction  that 
the  other  was  a  genius .''  For  Zelie,  at  her  guest's  urging, 
had  given  her  gypsy  dance,  and  to  Bee  it  was  the  most 
wonderful  madness  she  had  ever  seen.  '*It  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  were  going  mad  and  wanted  to  shout  to 
everybody  to  come  and  go  mad  too,"  she  had  gasped. 

^'That's  my  line — Spanish   or  gypsy,  or  any  of   the 


164   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

tiger-cat  varieties.  S'pose  it's  natural,  considering  that 
my  ancestors  were  south-Russian,  Hungarian,  Italian, 
gypsy,  Portuguese,  Spanish,  French,  and  the  Lord  knows 
what  else.  That's  why  I  was  able  to  say  *damn'  at  you 
in  six  languages  when  you  rang  my  bell.  .  .  .  Now  your 
line  will  aways  be  the  spirituelle — flowers,  spirits,  dreams, 
— that  sort  of  thing.  Well — some  day  we'll  each  find 
our  G.  O. !"  And  Bee  had  thrilled  at  the  delicious  inti- 
macy of  thus  being  drawn  into  Zelie's  slang,  in  which 
she  was  often  thereafter  to  hear  sighed  longings  for  the 
"Golden  Opportunity." 

A  feast  followed.  The  larder  yielded  only  a  broken 
cake  of  milk  chocolate,  a  green  banana,  and  a  shopworn 
cinnamon  bun,  but  the  spirit  of  revel  transmuted  these 
into  a  banquet.  The  tortoise-shell  cat  rubbed  their 
ankles  and  hummed  in  ecstacy.  When  Zelie  flavored  their 
glasses  of  hydrant  water  with  a  remnant  of  vi/n  ordinaire, 
and  the  two  drank  to  the  future  of  fame  and  fortune 
into  which  they  should  dance  their  way,  the  revel  was 
running  so  high  that  for  a  moment  neither  heard  the 
disturbance  outside. 


A  violence  of  scratchy  bounds  against  the  door  startled 
both  girls  at  last.  The  door  trembled  and  rattled  under 
the  attack. 

"There,  there!  What's  the  matter  with  you?  Vm 
coming!"  Zelie  rose,  still  munching  her  last  bite  of  cin- 
namon bun,  and  lounged  to  the  door,  while  the  demand 
for   admittance   grew   more    and   more   impatient.      She 


BITTERSWEET  ALLEY  165 

opened  to  a  wagging,  yapping,  jumping,  wriggling,  snuf- 
fling, writhing,  leaping,  insisting,  clamouring  whirlwind 
of  a  Boston  terrier,  at  whose  disorderly  entrance  the  cat 
retreated  to  a  corner  in  spinsterly  disapproval. 

"There!  Can't  you  wait  a  minute?  Anybody  might 
think  I  was  your  bell-hop!"  Zelie  scolded,  patting  and 
hugging  the  dog  meanwhile.  "What  have  you  got  now?" 
For  to  his  neck  was  attached  a  small  packet. 

She  held  him  on  her  lap  where  he  revolved,  a  snorting 
windmill,  while  she  untied  the  packet  with  difficulty.  It 
proved  to  contain  a  man's  glove;  Zelie  examined  the 
glove,  and  displayed  two  rips  down  the  fingers. 

"So  that's  the  trouble!  And  I  suppose  he  wants  it 
back  by  return  dog.  A  pal  of  mine  sent  this,'*  she  ex- 
plained to  Bee.  "This  dog  of  his,  A.  D.  T.  by  name, 
carries  any  little  message  between  us.  He  lives  a  few 
blocks  from  here.  ...  It  must  be  after  five  now — who'd 
have  thought  it?  From  nine  to  five  he's  at  his  office, 
and  it's  only  when  he's  at  home  that  he  sends  things  by 
A.  D.  T.  .  .  .  Gracious — I  haven't  a  scrap  of  brown 
thread  to  mend  this  with !"  She  rummaged  for  thread  not 
only  in  a  work-basket  and  a  table  drawer,  but  also  in  the 
larder. 

"I  have  some!  This  is  called  my  Magic  Box,"  Bee 
said,  producing  from  her  handbag  a  marvellous  sewing- 
box  of  fairy  size,  but  containing,  it  appeared,  everything 
for  mending  emergencies.  It  was  one  of  the  pretty  trifles 
which  Helen's  deft  fingers  were  always  fondly  adding  to 
her  daughter's  possessions, 

"Let  me  mend  the  rips  I"    She  had  found  brown  thread. 


166   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Zelie  tossed  her  the  glove.  "You  look  as  if  you'd 
be  better  at  that  sort  of  thing  than  I  am." 

It  was  long  and  slender,  badly  worn,  but  the  stamp 
of  one  of  the  best  of  all  makes  showed  within  the  wrist. 

"It's  so  interesting  to  read  a  glove,'*  Bee  observed,  as 
she  threaded  her  needle.  "Don't  tell  me  anything  about 
your  pal,  and  I'll  tell  you." 

Zelie  disposed  herself  to  listen.     "Fire  away!" 

"He  is  poor,"  proceeded  Bee,  driving  in  her  needle, 
"but  he  has  the  finest  sort  of  taste.  And  he's  full  of  fun. 
And  he  is  a  great  deal  more  in  earnest  than  he  will  show." 
She  held  up  the  third  finger,  pondering.  "Yes,  he  loves 
the  arts — all  beautiful  things — music,  sculpture,  poetry, 
drama — and  dancing,  when  it  is  very  true  and  noble  in 
its  meaning.    .    .    ." 

She  paused  dreamily,  and  her  needle  fell.  But  her  eyes 
dwelt  upon  the  brown  glove  in  her  hand.  Had  she  glanced 
then  at  Zelie,  who  lay  stroking  the  cat  with  one  hand  and 
patting  the  dog  with  the  other,  she  might  have  seen  a 
swift  widening  and  narrowing  of  the  red-brown  eyes,  have 
caught  a  flickering  smile  and  nod. 

"So  you're  a  seventh  daughter  of  a  seventh  daughter?" 

Slowl}^  Bequita's  voice  returned,  but  her  eyes  wan- 
dered. "No.  I  was  only — ^guessing.  Did  I — ^guess — - 
well?" 

"Extremely  well,"  Zelie  replied,  drily,  and  silence  fell. 

Bee  snapped  her  thread,  the  rips  being  mended,  and 
rose.  Her  eyes  were  still  dreaming.  "It's  late,"  she 
sighed.  "I  must  hurry.  Till  Thursday,  then.  Miss  Bar- 
rajas;  and  thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  taking  me 
as  a  pupil." 


BITTERSWEET  ALLEY  167 

Her  hand  slid  down  to  the  dog's  neck  as  she  passed  the 
couch  where  he  lay  curled.  He  leaped  on  the  instant  to 
her  caress,  and  returned  it  with  doggish  ardour. 

**Good-b3^e — ^A.  D.  T.  I"  she  said,  softly,  but  she  quite 
forgot  the  cat. 

At  the  door  she  turned  back.  "Oh — I'm  still  holding 
the  glove!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  absent-minded!"  She 
held  it  a  barely  perceptible  instant  longer,  and  handed 
it  to  Zelie,  who  took  it,  with  a  farewell  kiss  on  Bee's  cheek. 

Bee  went  slowly  down  the  stairs.  The  revelry  of  a 
short  time  before  was  gone  from  her  mood.  The  brooding 
fog  had  fallen  again. 

"Half -past  five!  I  must  never  stay  so  late  again! 
*Nine  to  five'  at  liis  office,  she  said.  That  means  that  he 
may  drop  in  here  at  any  minute  after  he  leaves  work. 
And  I  must  never,  never  once,  run  the  risk  of  meeting 
him,  for  that  would  be  dishonourable.  It  would  be  clamr 
destine''  To  Bee,  the  word  indicated  the  deepest  abysses 
of  sin. 

So  her  fiercely  insistent  honour  fought  down  her  long- 
ings. Unknown  to  herself,  the  strongest  attraction  to 
Bittersweet  Alley  lay  in  the  sense  of  haunting  a  spot 
haunted  by  Philip.  But  behind  the  pliant  tenderness  of 
Bequita  lay  a  certain  young  austerity;  a  power  of  sac- 
rifice that  could  be  self -scourging  and  self-crushing. 

"I  wonder  why  he  didn't  want  me  to  know  Zelie?" 
she  mused.  "And  somehow  I  feel  that  she  wouldn't  want 
me  to  know  liim.  I  can't  tell  why,  but  I'm  sure  she'll 
never  mention  me  to  him.  So  everytliing's  secret — like 
»  tight  knot." 


168   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

At  the  iron  gate  she  turned  to  look  back  at  her  new 
world  of  Bittersweet  Alley.  "How  strange,**  she  thought, 
"that  for  weeks,  months,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  going  there 
often,  day  after  day  at  times,  and  he  will  never  know. 
He  will  never  know," 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  TERRIBLE  GODS 


NEVER  once  as  the  weeks  progressed  did  Bee 
fail  to  appear  before  the  Obelisk  with  lesson 
thoroughly  prepared,  fingers  spurred  to  dicta- 
tion. Evening  after  evening  she  poured  over  her  school 
books,  and  she  often  asked  Helen  to  give  her  exercises 
in  dictation.  At  last,  Helen  congratulated  herself,  the 
child  was  "leaving  romantic  notions  behind."  It  was  a 
sober  Bee;  coldly  preoccupied,  but  diligent.  "Leave  her 
alone  and  she  will  come  home,"  was  Helen's  summary. 
There  had  been  a  blow,  no  denying  that;  but  the  resili- 
ency of  youth,  especially  of  Bee's  youth,  could  not  long 
resist  spring  weather. 

Such  inquiries  as  "What  have  you  been  doing  this 
afternoon,  dear?"  always  brought  the  replies,  "Read- 
ing in  the  library,"  or  "Studying,"  or  "Walking  in  the 
Park" — truths  that  Helen  did  not  suspect  as  being 
partial  truths  only.  The  excellence  of  Miss  Timmons's 
reports  amply  accounted  for  Bee's  spare  time. 

Even  Bequita  herself  did  not  guess  that  in  her  dili- 
gence a  remorseful  soul  revealed  itself.  That  soul  offered 
up  sacrifice  and  bowed  abjectly  and  sought  to  propitiate 

169 


170   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

certain  vague  gods  in  terms  of  Pitman  and  the  mimeo- 
graph, of  balances,  interests  compounded,  and  discounts. 

Always  she  reminded  those  gods : 

"Just  slipping  off  secretly  while  Helen's  at  the  office 
can't  be  wrong !  She  will  be  so  glad — oh,  simply  delighted 
about  my  dancing,  as  soon  as  I  make  a  success!  She 
thinks  it  isn't  practical.  But  as  soon  as  I  prove  that  I 
can  make  a  fortune,  and  everybody  is  raving  and  sending 
me  American  Beauties  and  saying  that  I  am  the  newest 
note  in  the  ancientest  art — then  won't  she  be  glad  and 
proud!"  And  as  the  gods  maintained  their  silence,  "She 
will,  too!"  Bequita  urged  lamely  and  in  vain. 

For  they  never  broke  their  formidable  silence,  these 
strange  gods  of  her  own  invention.  Bequita  had  a  grop- 
ing desire  to  approach  nearer  to  them,  a  sense  that  some- 
how she  might  explain  the  situation  and  make  them 
understand  her  difficulties,  as  she  sometimes  did  Miss  Tim- 
mons,  when  her  balances  were  wrong  for  a  perfectly  rea- 
sonable reason.  Even  the  terrible  Obelisk  would  cease  to 
frown  when  Bee,  with  the  rich  appeal  of  her  full  candour, 
showed  her  how  misleading  was  the  explanation  on  page 
77  of  the  commercial  arithmetic.  It  was  something  such 
a  situation,  she  felt,  that  now  lay  between  her  and  these 
dim,  formless  gods. 

Not  that  she  really  believed  in  them  as  gods,  or  visual- 
ized them.  They  were  merely  the  undefined,  accusing  on- 
lookers who  had  sprung  up  in  her  imagination  of  late, 
before  whom  her  perturbed  conscience  was  continually 
seeking  justification.  In  many  ways  she  was  the  child 
still;  and  she  groped,  after  the  child's  manner  of  con- 
fusing conscience  with  parental  rulership.     To  obey  ^h&t 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  ITl 

rulership  or  to  disobey  it  is  the  child's  distinction  between 
right  and  wrong.  Until  she  should  find  her  own  soul  and 
learn  to  heed  its  dictates,  she  must  continue  to  grope. 

Her  gods  were  bom  of  this  vague  search  for  truth. 
Worship  them  she  did  not.  In  a  dusk  like  that  of  primi- 
tive man,  she  felt  something  present  and  austere,  and  she 
feared  a  good  deal ;  but  far  more  she  fumbled  for  the  un- 
known something  that  should  cast  out  fear.  But  as 
yet  naught  ha|l  been  declared  unto  her. 

There  was  one  point,  however,  on  which  her  conscience 
suffered  no  compromise.  The  Spartan  within  her  held 
to  its  resolve.  Her  dancing  lessons  might  be  stolen  by 
way  of  escapes,  evasions,  part-truths,  excuses;  but  no 
other  stealing  should  there  be. 

With  what  ingenuity  she  managed  her  comings  and 
goings  always  to  escape  the  time  when  that  "pal'*  of 
Zelie's  might  happen  in  at  Bittersweet  Alley!  He  was 
never  named  by  either  girl ;  he  was  mentioned  as  a  "pal" 
only  in  connection  with  that  frequent  visitor,  the  dog; 
and  Bee  never  forgot  to  avoid  the  hours  within  which 
his  visits  were  possible.  She  would  snatch  her  wraps  in 
the  midst  of  the  most  absorbing  rehearsal,  with  a  sudden 
excuse  for  haste.  Never,  she  held  firm,  should  the  for- 
bidden meeting  take  place.  She  did  not  see  even  a  surface 
ripple  of  that  deep-flowing  current,  "the  wishful  self," 
that  had  irresistibly  drawn  her  little  craft  to  the  same 
waters  on  which  that  other  craft  was  accustomed  to  float. 


Bee  arrived  in  Bittersweet  Alley  one  afternoon  to  find 


172      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Zelie  scrambling  into  what  she  termed  her  "glad  rags." 

"Off  for  a  motor  ride.  Can't  give  you  your  lesson. 
You  don't  need  it,  anyhow.  You're  so  far  ahead  of  me 
already  that  I  might  as  well  try  to  jump  on  a  train  while 
it's  going  a  mile  a  minute." 

"Nonsense!  You're  simply  wonderful,  with  all  those 
Russian  leaps !  All  I  can  do  is  to  dance-out  queer  things 
that  pop  into  my  head." 

"That's  the  best  part  of  it.  And  now  (give  me  that 
slipper,  Villageoise!)  you're  getting  the  technique  be- 
sides— have  already  got  it,  in  fact.  We  must  begin  to 
talk  about  your  debut.  It's  got  to  be  the  real  thing — 
very  dignified,  and  an  opportunity  for  you  to  do  your 
finest  work.  Heigho !  Shouldn't  mind  having  a  crack  at 
my  own  G.  O.,  also.  Well — ^here's  to  us  both — so  long! 
You  stay  here  and  practise,  and  when  you  go,  be  sure  to 
leave  the  key  under  the  doormat  so  the  burglar  won't 
have  any  trouble."     With  a  kiss,  she  ran. 

Bee  waved  her  out,  and  turned  back  to  the  room,  where 
she  could  practise  undisturbed.  It  was  like  another  home 
to  her,  this  queer,  shabby  studio  where  for  weeks  her 
dancing  had  been  speeding  forward  toward  a  surely 
mastered  art. 

An  odd,  but  ardent  friendship  had  sprung  up  between 
these  two  girls.  Perhaps,  at  first,  each  one's  unusedness 
to  the  other's  world  and  type — a  mutual  curiosity  as  to 
background,  vision,  reactions,  petty  personal  habits  and 
tastes,  with  all  their  deep  significance  to  the  feminine 
mind — had  led  them  to  mutual  investigation.  Zelie  drew 
enlightenment  from  many  details:  from  the  white,  never 
blue  or  pink,  ribbons  that  peeped  through  the  film  of  Bee's 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  173 

sheer  blouses,  as  well  as  from  Bee's  crystal  gaze  of  non- 
comprehension  at  her  teacher's  occasional  "pretty  raw 
slips,"  as  Zelie  styled  certain  of  her  own  phrases  in  self- 
rebuke.  For  all  their  crudeness,  these  "slips"  always 
escaped  actual  vulgarity;  there  was  an  underlying  fine- 
ness in  this  strange  daughter  of  many  nations.  Because 
of  that  fineness,  she  began  to  set  a  watch  upon  her 
tongue. 

"If  I  ever  was  glad  that — it  is — as  it  is,"  she  said 
once  when  alone  wdth  the  cat,  ^^I'm  glad  now,  Villageoise. 
If  it — wasn't  all  right,  I  couldn't  stand  it  when  she  looks 
at  me  that  open  way,  like  the  sky." 

Bee,  in  return,  was  alertly  interested  in  every  glimpse 
of  the  Bittersweet  Alley  mode  of  living.  What  charming 
casualness  lay  in  Zelie's  marketing — "Say,  there,  shoot 
me  up  one  long  French,  and  charge  it  to  Helen  Gould's 
account!"  she  might  lightly  call  down  to  the  baker's  boy 
if  she  chanced  to  see  him  passing;  and  with  infallible  skill 
she  would  catch  the  crusty  loaf  tossed  from  the  stairs 
below.  And  what  lure  of  mystery  gleamed  from  the  nar- 
rowed eyes  of  Villageoise,  the  cream-fed  cat,  for  whose 
sake  Zelie  often  drank  skim-milk  in  her  own  coffee — the 
pet  who  was  alternately  boxed  across  the  room  in  a  tem- 
per and  consoled  by  the  offer  of  an  emerald  velvet  evening 
wrap  for  a  cushion! 

Zelie's  toes  had  known  dancing  as  long  as  she  could 
remember,  but  her  brain  had  paid  comparatively  little  at- 
tention to  it.  The  toes  recalled  a  babyhood  of  blistering 
pavements,  and  the  grinding  melody  of  a  hurdy-gurdy 
which  lashed  on  the  tired  toes  to  quicker  measure,  and 
nights  of  hurting,  and  days  of  the  same  blistering  pave- 


174      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

ments  and  peremptory  melody  all  over  again.  The  toes 
knew  the  game  from  beginning  to  end;  but  the  brain 
opened  with  astonishment  at  Bee's  revelations. 

For  Bee  had  prowled  in  the  library  and  had  found  the 
most  wonderful  books — ^books  that  told  what  dancing: 
really  meant.  How  it  had  been  the  expression  of  joy  or 
sorrow  or  praise  or  triumph  or  longing  or  worsliip  to 
ancient  peoples.  (Worship,  pondered  Bee.)  It  had  been 
their  way  of  telling  what  they  felt,  using  the  motions  of 
their  bodies  like  words.  Reading,  confessed  Zelie,  was 
not  her  long  suit;  but  Bee  would  sometimes  bring  the 
books  to  her  and  read  passages  aloud,  and  sometimes 
report  what  she  had  read  by  herself,  interpreting,  ques- 
tioning. 

That  huge  volume  from  the  French  of  Gaston  Vuil- 
lier — it  couldn't  be  taken  to  Bittersweet  Alley,  but  Zelie 
simply  must  see  it — they  went  together  to  the  great  refer- 
ence library  and  pored  over  its  beautiful  reproductions 
of  precious  old  paintings  and  sculptures.  There  was 
David  Dancing  before  the  Ark,  after  Domenichino — an 
Opera  Dancer  of  the  Seventeenth  Century — a  Sacred 
Dance  of  Greece — strolling  ballets,  pastoral  dances,  the 
seguidillas  of  Spain — think  of  how  dancing  spreads  out, 
all  over  the  world,  all  over  the  past !  cried  Bee.  And 
a  Treatise  on  the  Art  of  Dancing,  by  Giovanni- Andrea 
Gallini — how  long  ago  the  ridiculous  dear  wrote  it,  so 
long  ago  that  he  made  every  s  look  like  an  f — ^but  what 
wisdom!  "Dancing,  like  painting,  can  only  present  situ- 
ations to  the  eye;  and  every  truly  theatrical  situation  is 
nothing  but  a  living  picture,"  said  Gallini  in  the  seventeen- 
hundreds.    And  to-day  what  could  be  more  true? 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  175 

Now  and  then,  slipping  away  together,  they  saw  some 
of  the  famous  dancers,  discussed  their  interpreta- 
tions  

"That  Berceuse  is  exquisite,  Zelie,  as  she  gives  it — she 
dances  it  with  her  feeling,  and  forgets  her  muscles." 

"Ye-es.  But  I  like  the  kind  with  more  ginger.  Now, 
the  Amazon  dances  from  Iphigenie  would  have  been  cork- 
ers if  the  girls  could  only  have  got  mad  about  something 
just  before  they  went  on." 

Bee  once  discovered  a  precious  little  monograph  on 
the  Japanese  Dance,  by  Hincks 

"Hooray !  That  reminds  me !  I'll  take  you  to  call  on 
Aya.     She  danced  near  me  once  in  a  pageant." 

Although  accustomed  to  the  Japanese  in  California, 
Bee  had  never  seen  a  grown-up  human  creature  so  tiny 
and  so  lovely,  in  her  own  exotic  way,  as  this  Aya.  She 
was  so  small  that  she  seemed  more  like  a  little  black-eyed 
bird  than  one  of  our  kind.  Her  body  could  do  things  that 
no  occidental  body  can  ever  learn  to  do — it  could  curve 
and  ripple  like  water,  or  like  young  wheat  in  the  wind. 

Bee  was  entranced  by  this  tiny  mortal  and  her  art,  and 
the  few  Japanese  words  which  she  had  acquired  from 
Koyama,  the  family  cook  in  California,  set  Aya  into  peals 
of  delighted  exclamations.  Her  English  was  almost  as 
meagre  as  Bee's  Japanese,  but  somehow  the  two  girls 
made  each  other  out.  In  the  living-room  of  the  apart- 
ment where  this  oriental  household  dwelt,  the  little  dancer 
performed  several  of  the  ancient  nature-dances  of  her 
people,  explaining  as  she  danced. 

"She  says  that  this  movement  shows  the  spring  com- 


176   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

ing — flowers  bloom  now,"  Bee  interpreted,  as  Aya  seized 
a  long  spray  of  paper  fruit  blossoms. 

"Now  summer!     See  her  spread  her  parasol! 

"Autumn!  Oh,  charming!  Maple  leaves — red,  and 
she  scatters  them! 

"What   can   that   white   handkerchief   be  for?     What 

does  she  mean? Oh,  oh — spread  over  her  dear  little 

head — winter,  of  course!" 

In  a  corner  Aya's  elder  sister  twanged  the  samisen. 
She  was  hideous  in  her  American  dress,  with  round  spec- 
tacles; she  had  protruding  teeth  and  ropey  hair;  but 
she  drew  forth  strange  music  from  the  instrument  with 
an  almost  sinister  skill. 

Aya  was  struggling  to  explain.  She  talked  like  quick 
little  wooden  mallets  clattering,  and  her  red  mouth  pouted 
in  eagerness  to  tell,  even  her  pudgy  nose  seemed  pressing 
forward  as  though  it  were  trying  to  help  the  mouth  to 
tell. 

"So^ — dance  say — ^make  f rower  come,  pretty,  make 
frower  die,  make  snow  come,  all  die."  Her  voice  drooped. 
Then,  suddenly  gay,  she  snatched  up  the  pink  paper  blos- 
soms again. 

"Frower   come — al-ways — again.      Buddha !" 

In  the  corner  sat  the  hideous  sister,  and  from  her 
fingers  twanged  the  music  of  the  samisen,  hoarse,  melan- 
choly, unchanging  in  its  refrain,  old  with  the  age  of  Fuji 
and  the  hoary  winters  and  the  shifting  seas. 

This  little  Japanese  was  the  only  one  of  her  friends 
whom  Zelie  ever  introduced  to  Bee.  Now  and  then  she 
would  answer  some  neighbor's  knock;  but,  "Go   along! 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  177 

This  is  my  busy  day !"  she  would  stamp  out  at  the  visitor, 
and,  returning,  she  would  cry: 

"They  shan't  come  near  you !  You're  like  a  little  lace 
handkerchief  folded  away  in  sachet!"  and  snatch  the 
younger  girl  into  a  savage  feline  protectiveness. 

m 

Bequita,  alone  in  the  studio  this  afternoon  with  a 
luxurious  sense  of  freedom,  fell  languidly  to  glancing  over 
the  music.  None  of  it  suited.  She  wanted  very  much  to 
dance,  but  she  was  vague  as  to  what — no  flower  or  tree 
or  element  defined  itself,  only  a  nebulous  unrest  besieged 
her  spirit.     It  was  the  weather,  she  concluded. 

She  dropped  the  music  and  wandered  to  the  window. 
Here,  even  in  the  jaded  court  of  Bittersweet  Alley,  the 
green  was  thrusting  itself  through  crannies,  poking  impu- 
dent fingers  amidst  the  tangle  of  dead  grass  that  sur- 
rounded the  broken-down  fountain.  The  window  was 
open;  in  sneaked  a  young  spring  breeze,  and  it  had  its 
way  with  Bequita. 

"How  can  I  dance-out  anything,"  she  demanded  of  it, 
"when  I  want  to  dance-out  everything  at  once.'*" 

At  this  moment  she  was  interrupted  by  a  scuffling  an- 
nouncement. 

"A.  D.  T. !"  she  cried,  flinging  open  the  door.  "A. 
D.  T.,  dearest  of  doggies !"  He  bounded  to  her  arms 
and  she  buried  her  face  against  his  head.  A  little  sob 
broke  her  voice,  so  near  the  surface  flowed  both  pleasure 
and  pain  with  the  spring's  melting  of  emotional  restraint. 

"A.  D.  T.,  old  boy,  it's  the  first  chance  we've  ever  had 


178   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

to  talk  alone!  Tell  me — can't  you  tell  me  soTnething? 
Does — does  he  ever  say  anything — as  if  he  remembered? 
Have  you  ever  told  him  you  know  me?  Can't  you  say 
even  one  little  word,  A.  D.  T?" 

The  dog  fixed  his  eyes  upon  hers.  It  was  then  that  she 
noticed  the  note  tied  to  his  collar.  "RUSH !  IMPOR- 
TANT P'  was  scrawled  imperatively  thereon. 

"Rush — important!"  Bee  repeated.  "There's  some- 
thing he  wants  of  Zelie  at  once,  and  she  won't  be  here  till 
late.     Oh,  what  ought  I  to  do?" 

She  pondered.  To  open  another's  letter  was  a  liberty 
repugnant  to  all  her  ethical  fastidiousness ;  on  the  other 
hand,  neglect  might  cause  serious  trouble.  She  untied 
the  letter,  re- tied  it,  re-untied  it,  laid  it  on  the  table  to 
wait,  took  it  up  to  open,  studied  the  handwriting,  laid  it 
down,  took  it  up  once  more,  and — ^broke  the  seal.  This, 
her  insight  told  her  at  last,  was  what  the  less  fastidious 
Zelie  would  scoff  at  her  for  not  doing.  The  reticence  in 
this  case  was  her  own,  not  her  hostess's.  And  now  Bee 
read: 

"I'm  leaving  the  office  early;  have  caught  a  beastly 
cold ;  am  all  in.  Hail,  gentle  Spring !  Be  a  good  Samar- 
itan and  have  one  of  your  cracker  jack  toddies  hot  for  an 
afflicted  fellow-mortal,  won't  you.'*  And  one  of  your  open 
fires?  You  know  how  to  mother  a  chap.  I'll  be  there 
at  three  sharp.'* 

Philip  was  ill!  He  needed  care!  All  the  maternal  in 
Bee's  woman-nature  sprang  awake  on  the  instant,  respon- 
sive to  the  demand.  Her  anxious  fancy  leaped  to  influ- 
enza, to  pneumonia.  A  mental  flash  even  showed  her  her- 
self bending  at   a  bedside — rubbish,   she  knew,  but  the 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  179 

imagination  can  turn  somersaults.  But  he  was  ill,  he 
was  coming  for  help,  and  there  was  no  one  else  to  give  it. 

Grooves  carved  themselves  in  her  forehead  while  A.  D. 
T.  studied  her  face  as  though  awaiting  an  answer  for  his 
master.  "What  shall  I  do,  what  ought  I  to  do,  A.  D.  T.  ?" 
she  cried.  "I  mustn't  see  him — I've  always  stood  by  that. 
Over  and  over  I've  hurried  home  when  I  thought  your 
master  might  happen  in.  I've  held  to  my  vow  like  a  nun. 
I  said  I'd  never  run  a  chance  of  seeing  him ;  I'd  never  be 
here  except  when  he  was  at  work;  I  put  myself  on  my 
honour.  But  this  is  an  emergency  case.  This  might  in- 
volve serious  illness — ^life  or  death,  perhaps " 

The  rather  debonair  salutation  to  Spring,  accompanied 
by  the  request  for  a  fire  and  toddy,  hardly  suggested  a 
life-or-death  crisis;  but  just  now  Bee's  judgment  was  not 
sober.  The  depths  of  her  longing  soul  were  sore  beset, 
agitated  like  waters  by  a  stone  aimed  straight  into  their 
shadowy  gulfs.  '^Life  or  death — "  she  murmured  again ; 
then,  "I  mu^t  make  ready  for  him!  There^s  no  other 
way.     Then  I'll  go.     I'll  slip  away  before  he  comes." 

She  glanced  at  the  clock.  Fifteen  minutes  left  before 
"three  sharp."  She  must  work  fast.  Fourteen  min- 
utes, thirteen,  twelve,  eleven 

Bottle,  lemon,  sugar,  glass — she  had  them  all  together 
on  the  table,  brought  forth  from  Zelie's  cupboard  of  mar- 
vels. She  discovered,  also,  a  shabby  old  afghan,  and  she 
placed  it  alluringl}'^  on  the  couch.  Fortunately  the  fire 
had  been  laid  ready  for  the  match — now  a  scratch,  and 
it  was  off  with  gasp  and  crackle.  "Poor  dear!  In  a 
chill,  on  this  warm  day!"  sighed  Bee  the  mother,  and 
poked  the  logs  to  smarter  energy. 


180   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Another  glance  at  the  clock — nine  minutes  yet.  She 
filled  the  kettle  and  placed  it  on  the  gas  stove,  turning 
the  flame  low.  And  now  her  wraps.  They  leaped  to  her, 
it  seemed,  so  swift  were  her  movements.  A  moment  she 
paused,  for  one  searching  inspection;  yes;  fire,  couch, 
kettle,  ingredients,  all  were  in  complete  readiness.  But 
what  about  an  explanation?  Should  she  leave  some  word 
concerning  Zelie,  or  slip  away  like  a  pixie  at  dawn? 

She  settled  the  problem  by  seizing  a  sheet  of  Zelie's 
rose-coloured  green-bordered  note-paper  (she  had  never 
had  the  heart  to  make  a  suggestion  concerning  note- 
paper)  and  scribbling  thereon: 

Z^lie  is  away  until  evening.  You  will  find  everything  ready. 
Please  be  very  careful  not  to  get 

An  appalling  problem  was  here  confronted,  spelling 
ever  having  been  full  of  terrors  for  Bee ;  but  she  valiantly 
bearded  the  orthographical  lion  in  his  den,  and  concluded : 

penumonia. 

Yours  sincerely 

She  halted  her  pencil  as  if  it  were  a  runaway  steed. 
How  it  longed  to  dash  on,  to  leap  at  one  bound  to  the 
tell-tale  signature!  If  only  she  could  let  him  know  that 
it  was  she,  Bequita,  who  had  tried  to  "mother  a  chap!" 
But  it  would  not  do.  An  instant's  debate,  then  the  sig- 
nature: 

A   Busy  Fairy. 

"He  has  never  seen  my  writing,  so  there's  no  way  he 
can  guess.  Zelie  will  never  tell  him."  Bee  knew  this,  as 
she  had  always  known  that  the  same  silence  which  Zelie 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  181 

observed  concerning  her  "pal's"  name  would  be  observed 
concerning  her  own,  Bee's  name.  The  knowledge  was  as 
intuitive  as  it  was  inexplicable. 

She  weighted  the  note  in  plain  sight  under  the  tum- 
bler's edge,  noted  five  minutes  left  for  escape,  and  turned 
to  flee.  She  was  springing  to  the  door  in  flight,  her  hand 
was  reaching  to  the  knob,  when,  with  a  mad  volley  of 
barks,  A.  D.  T.  bounded  past  her  to  the  door  and  dashed 
it  open. 

Bequita  fell  back,  white  and  still.  "I — meant  to — 
get  away — in  time — "  she  panted,  and  it  was  to  the  gods 
she  said  it. 


IV 


The  dog  went  sharply  silent,  eyes  fixed  upon  a  master 
he  did  not  know — a  master  who  had  no  word,  no  pat  for 
him:  a  master  who  only  stood  and  stared,  then  darted 
into  the  room,  ignoring  him,  pressing  past  him 

"But  I  don't  understand!  You^ — you!  Here!  What 
can  it  mean?  No — don't  tell  me!  I  might  lose  a  minute 
of  the  mere  fact  that  you  are  here!"  He  had  her  eyes, 
he  had  her  hands. 

"I  didn't  mean  to — oh,  I  meant  to  slip  away  in  time — 
truly,  I  did!"  she  pleaded  with  the  gods.  "I  tried  to, 
but  he  came  ahead  of  time — I  was  hurrying  as  fast  as 
I  could '» 

It  was  the  breaking-point  of  weeks  of  tension,  and 
battling  conscience,  and  pent  unhappiness.  With  a  crash 
of  walls  that  crumbled,  a  thunder  of  waters  that  rushed 
through,  the  climax  came.     He  drew  her,  sobbing,  to  a 


182   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

seat  and  kneeled  beside  her,  stroking  a  hand  which  she 
did  not  try  to  withdraw. 

"Don't,  Bequita !  Don't  try  to  tell  me  anythnig  about 
it  yet.  All  I  want  to  know  is  that  you  are  here,  and  I 
can  see  you,  touch  you." 

Her  sobs  were  coming  in  big  gulps  now,  like  a  child's. 
Bee  the  mother  was  vanished  indeed. 

"I've  kept  my  word.  I've  never  broken  faith.  I  never 
stayed  when  I  thought  he  might  come,  or  sent  him  a 
single  message  by  A.  D.  T. — oh,  how  I've  wanted  to  tie 
just  one  tiny  word  to  that  collar!  But  I  didn't.  And 
to-day  I  hurried,  hurried  so  hard  to  get  away  before 
three — I  meant  to  do  right " 

"Bequita!  Bee!  Please!  I  don't  know  what  you've 
done  wrong,  but  I  know  you  didn't  do  it,  because  you 
couldn't.  And  if  it's  the  gods  you  are  pleading  with," 
(ah,  how  he  knew  exactly,  how  he  laid  his  finger  on  the 
pain  and  eased  it  by  his  mere  touch — ^was  this  all  a  part 
of  the  miracle  of  his  being  lie?)  "let  me  tell  you  something 
I've  found  out  about  them  in  a  good  many  dealings." 

He  rose,  and  gazed  down  at  her  from  paternal  heights. 
"It's  this.  Bee :  they're  not  anything  like  such  old  tyrants 
as  they  try  to  make  us  believe.  They  frown  terribly, 
like  schoolmasters  over  their  spectacles,  but  in  the  end 
they  give  a  chuckle  and  say,  'Oh,  well,  boys  will  be  boys,^ 
we  suppose!'  And  how  much  more  must  they  forgive 
girls  for  being  girls !" 

Her  hysteria  fell  back  exhausted,  and  she  looked  up 
and  met  his  look.  "You're  so  comforting.  How  can  you 
tell  so  well — so  exactly — ^what  to  say?" 

"It's  not  because  of  any  rare  wisdom,  dear  child.    It's 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  183 

only  because — O  Bee,  can't  you  see  it,  feel  it?  It's  only 
because  you  are  you  and  I  am  I!" 

She  gasped  as  he  struck  her  own  thought  like  a  bare 
nerve. 

"I  don't  understand  the  situation  at  all,"  he  went  on, 
"how  you  came  to  be  here  instead  of  Zelie  Barrajas,  and 
how  fate  has  led  me  to  tumble  in  upon  you — ^but  at  pres- 
ent I  don't  care.  It's  enough,  simply  that  it  is.  Please 
let  me  look  at  you.  And  then  look  at  you  some  more. 
And  keep  on  looking.  And  look  again.  And  continue 
to  look,  without  ceasing.     Just  because  it  is,  Bequita  1" 

She  was  drying  her  eyes  now,  and  a  smile  crept  through 
the  last  of  her  tears.  How  could  tears  survive,  when 
she  found  those  whimsical  eyes  waiting  for  hers?  There 
were  so  many  thmgs  in  them :  pleading,  and  mischief,  and 
longing,  and  make-funning — and  that  other  thing — that 
thing  until  recently  known  to  Bee  in  her  dreams  alone — 
that  mystery  which  awaits  girlhood  at  the  shrine  of  life. 
She  did  not  name  it  as  yet  even  to  herself.  Her  gods 
of  terror  she  might  daringly  face,  but  before  Love  she 
bowed  her  head,  inarticulate. 

"Yes — Philip,"  she  murmured.  "You  may  look."  At 
this  he  drew  up  a  chair,  and  his  whimsical  eyes  never 
loosened  their  hold.  "I  wouldn't  have  you  not  look.  We 
must  both  look  very  hard."  Her  smile  faded  at  this. 
"Because  we  can  never  look  again.  It  wouldn't  have 
happened  this  time  except  by  accident." 

"Bee !    Don't  say  it  can  never  be  again !" 

"But  it's  true.  We  are  forbidden  to  meet — yes,  I 
know  all  about  your  coming  to  my  home."  She  fore- 
stalled explanation.     "I'd  rather — not  talk  about  that — 


184   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

and  what  happened — ^because  it  hurts.  But  since  I'm 
not  allowed  to  see  you  at  home,  I  can't  see  you  any- 
where else,  because  that  would  be  clandestine."  The  word 
was  barely  whispered,  so  profound  was  her  sense  of  its 
dreadful  portent. 

He  smiled  gently  as  if  he  found  her  quaint;  but  the 
smile  seemed  on  the  outside,  behind  it  lurked  a  shudder. 

"Let's  ignore  the  precarious  future  along  with  the 
cold-hearted  past — for  to-day.  For  to-day,  let's  merely 
be  alive.  Isn't  it  good  just  to  be  that?  And  to  realise 
it?  Plenty  of  people  waste  time  by  never  finding  it  out 
until  it's  over.  My  dear  child,  let's  escape  at  least  that 
charge  when  the  account  comes  to  be  taken."  And  once 
more  that  paternal  smile  bent  benignantly  upon  her,  and 
made  her  laugh  despite  her  woes. 

"You're  so  funny  and  grandfatherly  to  be  only " 

She  paused. 

"Twenty-four,"  he  finished  for  her.  His  eyes  queried, 
«And ?'^ 

Bee's  lashes  drooped  an  instant,  as  if  all  maiden  reve- 
lation lay  in  her  reply.  Then  she  breathed  it  tremu- 
lously: "Nineteen."  They  had  "told  ages!"  With  a 
thrill  she  realized  the  fact.  To  tell  ages  was  to  have 
reached  a  stage  of  intimacy  so  far  advanced  that  the 
thought  dizzied  her.  And  they  were  "calling  first- 
names" — ^had  never  done  anything  else,  in  fact.  It  had 
all  come  about  without  preliminaries,  all  of  itself,  as  if, 
like  the  entire  relation,  it  simply  was;  with  no  beginning, 
no  upleading  steps  to  further  the  acquaintance. 

"We  say  Thilip'  and  'Bee'  "  She  gave  voice  to  her 
thoughts. 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  185 


"Do  you  mind?" 
^'No.     It  was  natural- 


"As  natural  as  your  being  you  and  my  being  I.  And 
the  only  unnatural  thing  is  your  being  here.  No,  don't 
tell  me  yet — explanations  take  too  long  when  time  is 
flying.  Let's  hurry  away."  His  glance  covered  the 
dingy,  ill-kept  room;  its  baronial  chairs  inherited  from 
the  photographic  studio  where  Zelie  once  had  posed  as 
a  model,  their  carvings  grey  with  dust ;  the  broken  couch 
and  faded  afghan;  the  gas-smeared  ceiling;  and  the  two- 
plate  "cooker"  on  which  Zelie  was  wont  to  prepare  erratic 
meals. 

"Come,  come  away !"  he  cried.  "You  don't  belong  here. 
You  mustn't  stay  another  minute.  You  belong  to  woods 
and  waters — ^I  have  seen  the  wind  frolic  with  you  while 
you  breasted  the  waves — I  have  seen  you  fluttering  with 
the  snowflakes  and  joining  their  romp.  You  are  a  child 
of  nature,  you  are  lyric,  and  you  shan't  stay  another 
minute  in  Bittersweet  Alley !  We  fly,  and  at  once !"  He 
held  out  his  hands  to  her  like  a  merrily  luring  faun, 
mocking  his  own  sentimentalities  with  his  own  whimsical 
eyes,  and  yet  somehow  conveying  the  information  that 
while  he  laughed  at  himself  for  saying  it,  he  nevertheless 
meant  all  he  said. 

Before  she  knew  it  Bee's  hands  had  met  his,  and  with 
a  laugh  of  sheer  faun  frolic  they  whirled  for  an  instant 
of  mad  rhythm. 

"But  your  cold!"  she  suddenly  remembered. 

"Cold.?    My  cold?"    He  was  at  a  loss. 

"And  you  came  to  be  nursed !"  She  explained  her  role 
in  the  drama. 


186      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"Honestly,  I'd  forgotten  it  entirely.  You  see  you've 
done  what  all  the  afghans  and  fires  and  toddies  in  Chris- 
tendom could  never  have  accomplished:  you  have  cured 
me  instantaneously.  Not  a  sneeze  left  to  tell  the  tale! 
Did  you  know  yourself  for  a  miraculous  healer?  Let's 
put  out  the  fire"  (with  a  dash  from  the  pitcher  this  was 
accomplished)  "and  return  the  bottle  to  its  shelf;  and — 
why,  here's  a  note " 

Bee  stood  silent  while  he  read  it,  shy  eyes  evading 
his.     When  he  had  finished, 

"  'A  Busy  Fairy',"  he  repeated,  slowly,  and  again,  his 
voice  going  low,  "  'A  Busy  Fairy.'  '* 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Then,  very  gently,  and  with- 
out mocking  liimself  at  all  this  time,  he  pressed  his  lips 
to  the  words.  From  an  inner  pocket  he  drew  one  of  those 
receptacles  whicli  dwell  within  the  inner  pocket  of  every 
man — ^leather,  always  rubbed  to  grey  about  the  edges, 
always  redolent  of  tobacco,  always  stuffed  to  bursting, 
always  subtly  maintaining  their  air  of  sacredest  pri- 
v^cj — and  into  this  receptacle  he  folded  the  rose-coloured 
g  feen-bordered  note. 

"I've  an  idea,"  he  observed,  meditatively,  "that  a  mes- 
sage like  that — merely  the  careless  scribble  of  a  Busy 
Fairy — might  tide  a  chap  over  a  good  many  bad  quarter- 
hours  in  that  afore-mentioned  precarious  future.  Fairies 
so  seldom  indulge  in  letter-writing  that  even  a  hurried 
line  from  one  is  worth  preserving.  And  now — "  with  a 
brisk  slap  of  the  pocket  which  seemed  to  cry  Hence!  to 
cloudy  meditation,  "We  must  be  off  without  further  de- 
lay. I  will  summon  wings  to  carry  us  to  the  woods,  where 
all  fairies,  of  course,  really  belong.     What  do  you  say 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  187 

to  flying  as  swiftly  as  possible  to  the  upper  end  of  the 
Park,  and  there  descending  to  earth,  and  trying  which 
of  us  first  shall  discover  the  spot  where  the  Snow  Fairy 
once  danced?" 

"Oh,  we  can,  we  must !  Surely  we  shall  find  it,  and  see 
how  it  looks  in  its  new  spring  dress!" 

In  a  whirl  of  laughter,  with  cries  of  gaiety,  they  were 
off,  A.  D.  T.  leaping  between  them,  barking  an  accom- 
paniment to  their  May  madness.  Not  once  did  Bee  pro- 
test ;  she  did  not  so  much  as  waver.  The  great  tide  of  life 
had  caught  her  up  as  though  she  were  no  more  than  a 
petal  to  offer  resistance;  had  swept  her  to  itself,  was 
bearing  her  onward  with  unswerving  mastery  out  toward 
far  waters. 


At  an  upper  entrance  of  the  Park  the  taxicab  depos- 
ited them.  It  had  writhed  its  way  through  blocks  of 
traffic;  amidst  the  cloppings  of  hoofs,  the  raucous  warn- 
ings of  motor-cars,  the  clangings  of  trolley  bells,  the 
roarings  of  elevated  trains,  the  muffled  growlings  of  sub- 
ways; blocks,  miles  of  this;  and  here,  all  at  once,  as  at 
the  waving  of  a  wand — ^here  was  Spring. 

She  danced  forth  riotously  to  welcome  them,  with  a 
fling  of  skirts  and  a  clatter  of  tambourine.  The  Park, 
city-girt  and  elderly,  was  joining  in  the  dance;  it  had 
decked  itself  in  the  yellow  of  forsythia,  the  purple  of 
wistaria;  it  had  sleeked  down  its  green  silken  hips;  and 
now  it  made  as  if  to  step  forth  jauntily,  extending  hands 
to  them,  while  Spring  shook  loose  the  rhythm  from  her 


188   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

tambourine.  "I  am  as  young  as  you — yes,  younger!" 
the  elderly  Park  might  have  been  crying  to  Bee.  "For 
no  youth  is  as  young  as  age  renascent.  Dance  as  gaily 
as  you  can,  and  still  I  shall  out-dance  you;  for  across 
the  path  of  youth  the  future  must  ever  and  again  cast  a 
shadow;  whereas,  a  future  that  lies  behind  cannot  be 
feared." 

So  they  met,  Bee  and  her  lover  and  the  Park  and 
Spring.     It  was  a  meeting  of  mad  pulses. 

"And  now  for  the  Snow  Fairy's  dancing  pavilion,"  he 
cried,  as  the  path  folded  them  away  from  every  contact 
of  the  city.     "Can  you  recall " 

*'I  haven't  the  least  idea — except  that  I  entered  by 
that  path.    But  I  wandered.    Let  me  see.  ..." 

"In  that  case,"  he  said  with  guilty  demureness,  "I  win. 
For  I've  been  here  so  many  times  since,  hoping  that  fate 
might  again  arrange  a  meeting,  that  I  can  show  you 
every  landmark!" 

And  to  that  confession  she  made  no  reply.  But,  im- 
pulsively, she  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 

VI 

"Ah,  here's  the  clump  of  bushes !"  he  pointed  out. 

"The  very  bushes!     Where  is  the  squirrel  that ^" 

"Cleaned  me  out  of " 

"Peanuts " 

"And  revealed  his  true  character " 

"So     that     you     revealed     yours,     by     calling     him 

names " 

"Which  he  richly  deserved." 

"Pot  and  kettle !    As  if  you  weren't  quite  as  much  of  a 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  189 

fraud  as  he,  when  you  pretend  that  your  cold  is  cured!" 

"But  I  swear  it!  Can  it  be,  O  Lady  of  Magic,  that 
you  are  unaware  of  your  own  powers?" 

The  tossed  chatter  fell,  like  a  ball;  Bee  had  failed  to 
toss  back. 

"I'm  more  aware  of  my  lack  of  powers,"  she  mused 
aloud.  "Somehow  I  used  to  think  that  life  was — I  mean, 
that  one  could  do — anything — have  anything — one  set 
out  for.  And  nowadays  it  feels  as  if  there  were  walls 
all  around,  like  those  around  a  blindfolded  person,  and 
he  goes  ahead  without  seeing  them,  and  all  of  a  sudden  he 
goes  bumpr* 

He  gazed  down  in  long  reproach.  "Bequita!"  he  re- 
buked, at  length.  "When  to-day  we  have  come  here 
merely  to  be!*^ 

She  could  not  realise  how  precociously  mature  was  his 
knowledge  of  the  evanescence  of  joy,  that  he  held  it  so 
fiercely  sheltered  for  the  brief  hour. 

But  she  turned  penitent.  "Forgive  me!  But,  da  you 
know,  Philip,  I'm  beginning  to  think  that  perhaps  I'm 
really  grown  up!"  Thus  she  interpreted  her  desponden- 
cies, the  growing-pains  of  the  soul. 

"Never!  You  couldn't  be!"  he  smij^d.  "A  fairy 
dwells  in  a  changeless  world  of  un-grown-up-ness.  And 
now — ah,  now!  Here  is  the  very  spot,  the  tree  under 
which  the  snow  dance  transfixed  the  gaze  of  mortal  eyes, 
casting  over  the  mortal  owner  of  those  eyes  a  spell 
from  which  there  is  no  escape." 

**It  is,  it  is  the  very  tree!  Men  have  a  much  better 
sense  of  locality  than  we.  Don't  you  think  it's  nice  of 
me  to  own  it?" 


190   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"I  think  everything's  nice  of  jou.  And  look!  Hush, 
A.  D.  T. — ^no  chasing!" 

Straight  up  to  them  came  a  squirrel,  scanning  them 
so  diligently  as  to  lead  to  the  belief  that  he  recognised 
old  friends. 

"The  little  rascal!  Of  course  it's  he!  It's  perfectly 
evident,  Philip,  that  he  knows  us." 

"Let's  put  it  to  the  proof.  If  he  rejects  a  peanut,  he's 
a  stranger.     If  he  accepts  it,  then  of  course " 

"Of  course!" 

With  a  flash  of  swiftly  manipulating  paws  the  peanut 
was  snatched. 

"Identification  complete!"  Philip  cried,  and  with 
laughter  they  s^ning  off,  out  of  the  sunshine  into  the 
sweet  enfoldment  of  a  deeper,  more  lost  path. 

Their  talk  rambled  on  irresponsibly,  touching  here, 
there,  everywhere,  as  the  talk  of  lovers  will,  as  though 
time  spread  before  them  like  a  boundless  park  through 
which  they  might  wander  without  arrest. 

The  news  they  had  for  one  another  was  endless.  They 
could  have  talked  a  week,  a  month,  a  year,  it  seemed,  and 
then  have  paused  only  for  lack  of  breath.  He  must  tell 
her  of  his  new  work,  and  of  the  bachelor  rooms  he  had 
acquired  in  a  most  inexpensive  block,  along  with  a  jani- 
tress  known  as  the  Dutchess,  who  retailed  romances  of 
her  one-time  carriage  and  pair  while  on  her  knees  with 
scrubbing-brush  poised.  Bee,  in  the  tumbling-forth  of 
her  news,  found  herself  picking  up  all  the  unimportant 
items  first :  she  had  learned  skating  the  past  winter,  such  a 
wonderful  out-of-door  novelty  to  a  Calif omian!  And  a 
canary  had  joined  the  family,  a  legacy  from  its  mistress. 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  191 

a  lovely  California  girl  who,  dying  in  the  influenza  epi- 
demic, had  asked  that  the  bird  be  sent  all  the  way  from 
San  Francisco  to  Bee's  tender  care.  And  oh,  the  one 
important  thing  she  had  forgotten — her  Roof  o'  Dreams ! 

"Roof  o'  Dreams?     The  very  name  enthralls  me!" 

"High  above  the  city  I  gaze  forth  over  all  the  world, 
and  dream  dreams " 

"And  weave  spells,  fair  lady!" 

"In  a  wonderful  dream  house,  set  round  with  daisies 
and  pansies  and  geraniums  and  forget-me-nots."  And 
she  went  on  to  tell  him  of  the  little  canvas  shelter  which 
Helen  had  devised  for  Bee's  out-door  hours,  an  awning 
above  a  steamer  chair  and  flower  boxes,  erected  on  the 
roof  of  the  apartment  building. 

"Tlie  mere  picture  sets  me  dreaming,  too!"  he  de- 
clared. 

When  he  told  her  the  tale  of  the  cabby  "who  risked  a 
smash-up  and  wouldn't  take  a  cent,  that  I  might  find 
my  Cinderella,"  Bee  listened  enraptured. 

"What  a  man  he  would  be  to  know !"  she  sighed.  "For 
he  is  evidently  an  idealist,  and  idealists  are  so  uplifting!" 
Occasionally  Bee  exposed  doctrines  not  derived  from 
Helen's  teachings.     "And  you've  never  seen  him  again?" 

"Ah!  There  begins  Chapter  II."  And  he  related  the 
sequel.  It  seemed  that  he  had  run  across  the  cabby 
again,  one  stormy  winter  day,  had  paid  the  delinquent 
bill  in  full,  much  against  Mr.  Popp's  (for  that  was  his 
delightful  name)  wish,  and  had  wound  up  by  calling  at 
the  Popp  home,  as  full  of  grandchildren  as  a  nest  of 
young  birds. 

"Poor  old  chap,  he's  hard  up.     Can't  work  mucli,  on 


192   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

account  of  rheumatism.  And  yet  he  rejected  my  cold 
cash  on  that  occasion!" 

"Oh,  what  fun  it  would  be  to  play  fairy  to  all  those 
darling  little  Popps!" 

His  eyes  rested  upon  her,  and  a  tender  reverence  filled 
them,  the  sort  of  reverence  with  which  we  grown-ups  re- 
gard a  child  when  it  is  borne  in  upon  us  how  much  nearer 
than  we  it  is  to  the  inner  secret  of  things. 

"You  shall  see  them  some  day,"  he  promised.  "And 
now  let  us  be  very  businesslike,  and  discuss  the  future." 

The  words  startled  her;  she  glanced  at  her  watch.  "I 
must  go.  And  there  isn't  to  be  any  *some  day,'  Philip. 
I've  been  forgetting."  Her  voice  sagged.  "Pve  been 
imagining  that  all  this  was  real,  instead  of  a  tiny,  short 
dream,  tucked  in  between  years  and  years  of  realness." 

He  drew  her  to  a  seat  upon  a  fallen  tree.  They  might 
have  been  in  the  depths  of  a  forest  for  all  they  could  see 
now  of  the  city.  On  every  side  they  were  enclosed  by  a 
mist  of  young  green  through  which  the  black  trunks,  not 
yet  concealed  by  the  new  foliage,  showed  in  decorative 
upright  lines. 

"Bee,"  he  said  gravely,  "do  you  suppose  that  I  am 
going  to  abide  by  any  dismissal  that  is  not  of  your  own 
volition  ?" 

She  was  silent. 

"Until  to-day,"  he  went  on,  "I  did  not  know  but  that 
you  also,  on  second  thoughts,  dismissed  me.  But  now 
I  believe  that  your  will  would  be  to  see  mc  again.  Am 
I  right?" 

Her  eyes  answered  that. 

"Then,"  he  went   on,  still  in  that  slow,  sure,  grave 


THE  TERRIBLE  GODS  193 

voice,  "no  one  can  prevent  our  friendship.  We  men  that 
were  in  France  learned  not  to  take  a  *no.'  I  intend  to  see 
jou  again. '^ 

"No,  no,  Philip !  Promise  you  won't  try  to  meet  me  at 
Zelie's !    It's  a  matter  of  honour  to  me.     Promise !" 

"I  promise  that,  for  I  hope  never  to  see  you  there 
again.     And  now  will  you  tell  me  how  it  happened?" 

She  told  him  briefly  of  her  acquaintance  with  Zelie,  of 
the  lessons,  the  plans  for  a  career.  He  listened  with 
growing  astonishment. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you've  been  studying 
under  her  constantly  for  weeks?" 

"Yes,  for  weeks." 

He  compressed  his  lips  and  knitted  his  brows,  as 
though  endeavouring  to  solve  a  mystery.  "When  I  found 
you  there  I  never  dreamed  but  it  was  some  strange  acci- 
dent   for   the   once.      How    can    it   be    that "      He 

broke  off.  Then,  almost  angrily:  "And  to  think  that 
one  stray  remark  of  mine,  a  remark  I  snatched  back  as 
soon  as  it  escaped,  should  have — ■ — "  Again  he  broke 
off.  "Look  here,  Bee,"  he  began,  authoritatively,  and  in 
that  tone  Bee  had  her  first  taste  of  man's  protective  pro- 
prietorship, which  we  ever  resent  and  for  which  we  ever 
adore  him.  "You  must  call  it  off^,  and  right  away. 
Zelie — ^well.  Bittersweet  Alley  isn't  the  place  for  you." 

"But  she's  a  friend  of  yours!" 

"So  she  is,  a  loyal  little  old  pal.  But — ^well,  my  dear 
child,  you  can't  understand  these  things,  but  Bittersweet 
Alley " 

She  rose,  flushed  and  on  the  defensive. 

"Give  up  Zelie  Barrajas?     Indeed  I'll  not!     If  you 


194   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

think  I'm  going  to  give  up  a  true  friend,  just  because  her 
note-paper     and     her     apartment     are     different     from 

mine " 

He  had  risen,  too,  and  he  stood  looking  tenderly,  wisely 
into  her  face.  Her  words  resounded  in  her  own  ears. 
Actually,  she  was  quarrelling  with  hvm!  It  came  to  her 
then,  never  to  be  forgotten,  how  easily  the  bells  may  be 
put  out  of  tune. 

Her  hands  went  out  to  him.     "How  could  I — to-day !" 
"You  are  right.     We'll  drop  disagreements  for  to-day. 
But  as  to  the  future — ^^^ou  won't  tell  me  where  I  may 
find  you?" 

"There  isn't  to  be  any  future,  for — ^us." 
He  did  not  reply.  The  spring  day's  brilliancy  was 
softening  toward  twilight  as  they  emerged  into  the 
crowded  drive.  Behind,  woodsy  fragrances  reached  out 
after  them  like  soft  urgings  to  return,  but  Bee  faced 
steadily  outward.  The  precious,  tiny  noises  that  a  few 
minutes  ago  had  surrounded  them — a  breeze  in  the  leaves, 
birds'  wings,  tlic  scamper  of  a  squirrel — tliese  had  van- 
ished, lost  in  the  city's  din. 

At  the  corner  she  gave  him  her  hand,  but  she  did  not 
look  up.  Her  "good-bye"  was  hardly  more  than  a  chok- 
ing whisper.  "It's — for  always,"  she  breathed.  And  the 
crowd  had  surged  between  them. 


CHAPTER  X 
ZELIE  FACES  THE  INEVITABLE 


ON  the  same  evening,  Miss  Zelie  Barrajas,  hav- 
ing dined  frugally  to  atone  to  her  purse  for 
"one  high-fly  afternoon"  on  Long  Island  with 
a  party  of  convivial  spirits,  settled  down  to  domesticity 
with  Villageoise. 

"Sorry  for  you,  my  dear,  that  it  had  to  be  weak-fish 
instead  of  halibut  steak,"  she  apologised,  hunting  for 
something  to  dry  the  dishes,  and  discovering  a  soiled  and 
stringless  apron  which  would  serve  very  nicely  as  dish- 
towel.  "I  know  your  preferences.  Same  here.  But 
you're  a  wise  one.  If  you  can't  get  halibut  steak  you'll 
give  an  extra  clean  lick  to  your  dish  to  make  anybody 
believe  you  really  like  weak-fish  the  best,  after  all.  That's 
what  I  call  the  sporting  spirit,  Villageoise." 

Villageoise  accepted  this  compliment  to  her  philosoph- 
ical nature   with   superb  indifference,   and   continued   to 
•  pursue  the  last  particles  of  fish  over  the  edge  of  her  plate 
with  long,  sidewise  reaches  of  a  sinuous  pink  tongue. 

"You're  a  better  dishwasher  than  I  am,  Madame  Cat," 
Zelie's  sociable  chatter  continued  while  she  inspected  her 
own  superficial  results.     "I  suppose  domesticity  never  was 

195 


196   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

my  long  suit.  All  the  same,  if  Somebody  was  to  come 
along  and  remark,  *Zelie,  my  dear,  what'd  you  say  to  a 
little  apartment  with  all  modem  improvements,  including 
shower-bath,  kitchenette,  and  marriage  certificate  framed 
on  the  wall?' — ^I  said  if  Somebody  was  to,  Villageoise,  not 
Anybody,  you  understand — oh,  say,  Villageoise,  would 
you  go  along  to  purr  the  hymen-eel  anthem,  I  guess 
yes!" 

Zelie  drew  a  long  sigh  and  her  eyes  went  dreamy.  She 
turned  toward  the  open  window,  her  improvised  dish-towel 
slung  like  a  dancer's  scarf  over  her  shoulder.  The  warm 
weather  loafed  with  invitation. 

"Yes,"  she  rambled  on,  "there's  something  about  do- 
mesticity that  sort  o'  comes  out  in  the  Spring,  like  violets 
and  monkeys  on  hurdy-gurdies.  You  don't  think  much 
about  it  till  the  weather  gets  hold  o'  you,  then  you  begin 
to  see  how  you'd  look  at  a  cute  little  white  sink,  with 
ruffles  on  your  apron,  or  putting  away  the  cream  in  an 
icebox  just  big  enough  for  two.     .    .    .    Come  in !" 

She  swung  about  at  the  knock,  a  quiet,  purposeful 
knock;  then,  with  a  joyous  start,  swept  forward,  hands 
out. 

"Honey,  old  boy!  Why  didn't  you  give  your  three- 
rap  signal?  Say,  but  it's  good  to  set  eyes  on  you  again! 
Been  motoring  on  Long  Island — some  class,  eh,  what? 
Say,  Philly,  dear,  that  new  suit  sure  has  got  the  style, 
there's  no  doubt  about  it,  and  brown  certainly  is  your — 
say,  what's  the  matter,  anyhow?"  She  had  come  to 
silence  abruptly  at  last,  halting  with  hands  on  his  shoul- 
ders, pushing  him  off  to  arm's  length  for  better  inspec- 
tion. 


ZELIE  FACES  THE  INEVITABLE         197 

There  was  no  response:  he  was  restrained  and  sober. 
And  now  she  realised  what  his  look  held:  in  it  she  read 
criticism,  and  austerity;  something  that  was  not  exactly 
anger,  but  more  alarming:  something  that  she  stumblingly 
defined  to  herself  as  "a  sort  of  cold  far-off-ness."  It  was 
as  if,  it  seemed  to  Zelie,  he  had  passed  beyond  her,  into 
some  rarer  atmosphere.  Her  lips  lost  their  mischievous 
smile.  Something  that  had  shone  in  her  eyes  from  the 
moment  he  entered  went  out  like  a  blown  flame.  Slowly, 
very  slowly,  as  if  numbed,  her  hands  fell  from  his  shoul- 
ders ;  slowly  her  eyes  ceased  their  merry,  tender  scrutiny. 
She  turned,  and,  picking  up  Villageoise  from  the  easiest 
of  all  the  uneasy  chairs,  she  buried  her  face  for  a  moment 
in  the  tortoise-shell  fur. 

Only  Villageoise  heard  her  whisper. 

"It's  come,"  was  what  Villageoise  heard.  "I  always 
knew  it  had  to  come." 

n 

She  rallied  vigorously.  "Villageoise,  I'm  ashamed  of 
you!  Give  the  gentleman  a  seat!"  With  a  padded  thud 
the  cat  was  dumped  upon  the  floor.  "Here,  Phil,  make 
yourself  comfortable.  You'll  excuse  me  if  I  finish  the 
dishes,  won't  you?"     She  twirled  toward  the  cupboard. 

Zelie  could  feel  ungovernable  contractions  of  her  face 
going  on,  as  if  the  face  were  turning  somersaults.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  her  lips  were  jerking,  that  her  eyes 
were  twitching,  her  forehead  knotting;  but  a  glance  at 
the  mirror  showed  none  of  these  nerve-writhings  recorded 
on  the  surface.     Only  a  queer,  dry  glitter  of  the  eyes,  a 


198   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

hot  reddening  of  the  lids  with  no  sign  of  tears,  and  an 
unnatural  pallor  through  her  swarthiness.  Yes,  she 
would  pass  muster  as  to  looks,  she  reassured  herself. 

"Sit  down,  do!"  she  urged  again,  hanging  the  one  be- 
handled  cup  upon  its  hook.  "IVa  la  la,  tra  la  liraF* 
She  hummed  a  bar  of  her  Spanish  dance  with  laborious 
lightness.  "Long  Island's  great  this  time  of  year.  Say, 
you  ought  to  have  seen  the  way  we  speeded.  You  couldn't 
have  told  us  from  a  torpedo  shot  from  a  submarine. 
Reddy  said  that  new  hat  of  mine  sure  was  some  periscope. 
Oh,  tra  la  la,  la  lira!    Say,  listen " 

Philip  had  not  taken -the  seat  vacated  for  him.  Instead, 
he  had  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets  and  was 
pacing  up  and  down  the  long  room,  his  eyes  raking  the 
floor.  At  length  he  halted  near  her — she  could  feel  him 
there  while  she  went  on  arranging  dishes,  rearranging 
them,  tra-la-ing  inconsequently.  ...  If  only  her  face 
would  stop  those  somersaults — surely  they  must  show 
now!  And  her  heart  was  pumping  up,  up  against  her 
chest 

"Zelie!" 

"Present!  Well,  what,  honey.?  Don't  set  my  heart  to 
pitty-patting  like  that!  When  you  employ  that  tone  o' 
voice,  I  can't  tell  whether  I'm  to  be  court-martialled  or 
proposed  to,  and  the  suspense  makes  me  nervous."  With 
an  insouciant  flip  of  the  improvised  dish-towel  she  went 
on  putting  away  dishes,  as  though  they  were  the  primary 
concern  of  life. 

"As  soon  as  you're  through,  I'd  like  to  have  a  talk." 

"Talk  on,  sweet  babbling  brook.  Oh,  tra  la  lira 
U " 


ZELIE  FACES  THE  INEVITABLE         199 

With  an  impatient  expelling  of  breath  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  paced  the  floor  again.  Her  pretense  fell  away  of 
a  sudden,  exposing  all  the  pitiful  fright  beneath  it.  She 
laid  aside  the  dish-towel,  closed  the  cupboard  door  upon 
her  labours,  crossed  directly  to  him,  and  waited,  her  eyes 
squarely  meeting  his;  for  that  second  she  wore  the  look 
of  the  brave  facing  execution. 

"WeU?" 

"We  might  as  well  sit  down  to  it,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"I  want  you  to  tell  me  the  whole  story,  please,  to  begin 
at  the  beginning."  (If  only  he  wouldn't  be  so  quiet  about 
it,  so  dreadfully  gentle  and  self-contained!)  "Please  teU 
me  how  you  came  to  take  Miss  Kent  as  a  pupil?" 

Zehe  shrugged,  and  with  an  effort  regained  her  flip- 
pancy. "I  didn't  *came'  at  all.  She  did  it.  She  came 
here  hunting  for  me  and  begging  me  to  teach  her  as  if  I 
was  Pavlowa  and  all  her  future  hung  on  the  guidance  of 
my  master  hand — or  master  toes,  eh,  what?  It  was  my 
busy  day,  and  I  pretty  near  kicked  her  downstairs,  but 
when  I  got  a  look  at  her  I  had  to  have  a  heart." 

"Rather !"  she  heard  his  aside.  Aloud  he  went  on  ques- 
tioning:     "So  this  has  been  going  on  for  weeks?" 

"Correct,  my  bright  lad." 

"And  you  never  once  mentioned  to  me  that  you  had 
a  pupil,  that  you  knew  Miss  Kent,  that " 

Zelie  ostentatiously  rounded  her  eyes  to  saucers.  "How 
was  I  to  know  there  was  any  need  to  mention  it?  She 
nev§r  spoke  of  knowing  you!" 

"Let's  be  honest,  Z^lie."  (Ever  more  dreadfully  quiet 
he  grew — if  only  he  would  lose  his  temper!)  "It's  pretty 
evident  you  did  know  something,   or  you  would  never 


200   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

have  kept  so  still  about  the  whole  affair,  considering  that 
I  see  you  every  few  days,  and  we  naturally  make  a  pretty 
exliaustive  interchange  of  news  of  our  doings.*' 

"I  don't  recall  that  you\Q  ever  mentioned  her  in  all 
that  ^exhaustive  interchange'!" 

At  least  she  had  made  him  wince.  "There's  been  noth- 
ing to  mention,"  was  all  he  could  say.  "I've  not  seen  her 
for  weeks  until  n^ow*  But  you — teaching  her — being 
with  her  day  after  day — you  never  happejied  not  to 
speak  of  her.     You  had  a  reason." 

If  his  rebuke  for  her  failure  in  the  candour  of  friend- 
ship had  been  less  gentle  it  might  not  have  stung  her 
to  such  sharpness  of  retort.  "Prob'ly  I  had,"  she  snapped. 
"I  usually  have  a  reason  for  my  conduct.  But  consid- 
ering you  hadn't  seen  her  for  weeks,  I  take  it  you  hardly 
know  her.  So  why  the  deuce  you  should  get  so  fussed 
up  over  it  I  can't  see." 

He  did  not  reply  to  this,  but  sat  looking  straight 
into  her  eyes,  and  all  at  once  she  recognised  in  that  look 
— ^pity!  That  she  could  not  bear.  Her  lip  shook,  and 
she  bit  it  wrathfully  in  its  weakness;  she  squinted  back 
the  hot  tears  that  started. 

"Zelie,  we've  been  good  old  pals — "  he  was  beginning, 
and  he  laid  a  hand  on  hers.  But  she  snatched  her  own 
away. 

"You  can  have  the  whole  story,  and  welcome!  since 
you've  got  the  curiosity  of  a  cat!  Miss  Kent  came  to 
me  for  lessons,  and  all  she  said  was  that  she'd  'heard 
someone  mention  me  as  a  dancer.'  When  she  pretended 
to  describe  you  from  your  glove,  I  tumbled  as  to  who 
the  'someone'  was,  but   seeing  she  didn't   care  to   talk 


ZELIE  FACES  THE  INEVITABLE         201 

about  it,  I  just  laid  low  and  held  my  tongue.  I  knew 
you'd  never  have  advised  her  to  come  to  me"  (a  bitter- 
ness shadowed  her  face  for  a  moment),  "so  I  figured  it 
out  like  this:  Prob'ly  you'd  happened  to  mention  me 
and  my  dancing  to  her,  and  prob'ly  she'd  burst  out,  in 
her  way,  that  she  wanted  to  know  me,  and  then  you'd 
regretted  what  you'd  said,  and  told  her  not  to  look 
me  up.  That,  I  figured,  was  one  reason  why  she  kept 
so  quiet  about  you.  So  you  see,  naturally,  I  wasn't  going 
to  give  her  away." 

Perhaps  he  was  reflecting  on  how  uncannily  accurate 
her  surmises  were,  as  is  so  often  the  case  with  creatures 
as  primitive  and  intuitive  as  Zelie.  Perhaps  he  was 
debating  how  to  meet  those  surmises.  At  any  rate,  he 
did  not  reply  for  long  moments,  while  his  hands  hung 
locked  between  his  knees  and  his  stare  saw  only  the 
floor. 

Then  he  sat  up  with  a  gesture  of  final  resolve,  but 
his  voice  was  gentle. 

"Zelie,  it's  got  to  come  to  an  end.'* 

She  felt  as  if  something  witliin  her  were  turning  white : 
her  very  heart,  like  her  face.  But  she  mustered  a  debonair 
lift  of  the  eyebrows. 

"An  end?  You've  got  another  guess  coming,  sonny.  I 
didn't  want  her  at  first,  but  now  I've  got  her  career  on 
my  hands,  I'm  going  to  put  it  through  till  I  see  her 
launched,  believe  ?w^/" 

But  he  shook  his  head.  "It  can't  go  on,  Zelie.  I  am 
the  only  one  of  Miss  Kent's  friends  who  knows  of  her 
coming  here,  and  that's  why  I  feel  that  it's  up  to  me. 
I  appeal  to  you;  do  you  think  that  Bittersweet  Alley 


202   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

is  the  place  for  a  girl  so  young  and  utterly  inexperi- 
enced?" 

"You  mean — you  mean "     She  was  only  breathing 

it,  her  voice  seemed  to  hiss  in  her  throat.  She  had  said 
the  thing  herself,  but  now  that  he  said  it,  rage  choked 
her. 

"You  mean  that — that  you  consider  me " 

He  swung  about  in  his  chair  and  laid  both  hands  upon 
her  arms,  holding  tight  when  she  tried  to  jerk  from  his 
grasp.  And  now  his  eyes  struck  straight  into  hers,  not 
with  austerity  or  coldness  or  even  gentle  pity,  but  with 
a  world  of  frank  and  tender  friendship, 

"No,  Zelie  Barrajas,  that  is  not  what  I  mean!  I  know 
you  through  and  through,  and  I  know  what  you  are, 
and  I  count  knowing  you  as  one  of  the  worth-while 
friendships  of  my  life — the  friendships  that  boost  our 
belief  in  human  nature,  and  give  that  belief  something 
to  fall  back  on  now  and  then  when  it  feels  the  need. 

"I  saw  you  come  to  this  city.  You  had  never  had 
any  teaching,  anybody  to  bring  you  up ;  you  were  alone, 
nobody  to  care,  without  a  cent,  and  handicapped  by 
much  charm  and  prettiness.  It  looked  like  a  foregone 
conclusion.  But  it  wasn't.  There  isn't  one  girl  in  a 
thousand  in  just  your  situation,  and  with  just  your  vaga- 
bond background,  who  could  have  kept  straight.  But 
you  have.  When  a  girl  like  you  comes  his  way,  any 
man  that's  worth  the  name  takes  off  his  hat." 

She  had  ceased  to  fight  for  her  freedom.  She  sat  drink- 
ing in  his  words,  quivering  in  the  pain  of  the  joy  they 
brought  her. 

"But  it's  Bittersweet  Alley,  Zelie,"  he  went  on.     "You 


ZELIE  FACES  THE  INEVITABLE         203 

and  I  know  what  this  particular  type  of  'Bohemia'  stands 
for.  It  isn't  the  true  Bohemia,  which  should  be  a  centre 
of  care-free  gaiety  and  the  good  old  eat,  drink  and  be 
merry  spirit  of  let-the-morrow-worry.  This  is  ugly  and 
festering.  It's  sordid  and  morbid  and  slimy.  You  can 
take  every  type  into  your  good,  warm  friendship,  wel- 
come them  all,  and  march  on  straight  in  your  own  way; 
but  do  you  think  that  such  an  environment  is  one  that 
a  man  can  bear  to  think  of  in  connection  with  the  girl 
he " 

She  waited  for  it,  as  for  a  stab.    It  came. 

"He  cares  for,"  he  finished. 

There  was  a  very  long  silence.  She  slipped  her  arms 
from  his  hold.  She  was  struggling  again  with  that  queer 
feeling  of  having  turned  white  inside,  as  though  her  heart 
were  as  white  as  her  face.  Yes,  she  had  known  it  all 
along,  her  brain  was  trying  to  tell  her,  but 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  she  heard  her  voice  say  at 
last.  It  sounded  a  long  way  off.  "I've  always  thought 
of — her — as  a  little  lace  handkerchief  to  be  folded  away 
in  sachet.  I've  watched  myself — ^mj'^  talk — I've  never  let 
her  meet  any  of  the  crowd,  with  their  raw  stories,  and 
their  ways.  I've  sheltered  her,  always.  Can't — can't  you 
trust  her  to  me?  If  you  can't,  how  am  I  to  believe  what 
you  say  of  me?" 

Very  strange  her  voice  sounded  to  her:  it  seemed  to 
have  gone  humble,  and  it  ended  almost  on  a  sob.  Still 
his  gaze  was  full  of  frank,  tender  friendship,  and  now 
something  within  him  seemed  suddenly  to  give  way. 

"Yes,  Zelie,  you  can  believe  that  I  believe  in  you !  I'm 
ready  to  prove  it.     Now  that  you  tell  me  this — ^that  she 


204.  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

is  under  your  protection — sheltered  from  the  things  that 
surround  her  here — then  I  trust  her  to  you.  I  have  no 
right  to  say  that,"  he  added,  "except — that  I  love  her^ 
whether  she  lets  me  or  not." 

The  words,  slow,  low  and  distinct,  fell  into  a  silence 
like  a  pool.  It  was  as  though  the  ripples  they  caused 
faded  ever  so  slowly.  Zelie's  face  was  averted.  It  was 
a  long  time  before  she  spoke.     She  said  then: 

"I  sometimes  think" — she  was  speaking  to  the  world 
beyond  the  window,  not  to  him — "that  nothing  could  harm 
her  anyhow.  It's  as  if — as  if — well,  nothing  could  soil 
a  star  that  was  shining  down  on  Bittersweet  Alley,  but 
we'd  all  be  shined  up  a  lot  by  that  star." 

At  that  he  did  a  strange  thing:  he  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead.     Then  he  went. 

Zelie  rubbed  the  spot  curiously. 

"I  know  what  cheeks  and  lips  are  for,  Villageoise,"  she 
observed,  "but  that's  a  new  one  on  me.  It  made  me  think 
of  church." 


in 


He  was  gone. 

As  he  closed  the  door  and  went  down  the  stairs,  Zelie 
had  a  sense  of  clinging  to  each  sound,  as  one  clings  to 
words  of  the  dying.  To  be  sure,  he  would  come  again. 
That  is,  the  shell  of  him  would.  But  the  Phil  inside  that 
shell,  her  own,  as  she  had  counted  him  in  friendship,  was 
gone,  she  knew,  forever. 

"He's  always  played  fair — don't  you  dare  say  he 
hasn't!"  she  cried  now  to  Villageoise,  as  if  that  unwink- 


ZELIE  FACES  THE  INEVITABLE         205 

ing  observer  had  uttered  blame.  "He  never  led  me  on; 
he  always  made  it  plain  we  were  only  pals.  But  as  long 
as  there  was  nobody  else " 

Villageoise's  silence  was  perhaps  construed  as  criticism, 
for  Zelie  burst  out: 

"Oh,  I  always  knew  I  was  a  fool !  But  I  couldn't  help 
it!  Who  could?  With  his  fun,  and  his  little  ways  of 
doing  nice  things  for  a  person,  and  his  loyalty,  and  his 
squareness.  He  hasn't  got  a  fault  I  ever  could  find — 
and  I've  hunted  for  'em — except  the  way  he  keeps  himself 
poor  trying  to  support  everybody  that's  in  trouble.  I've 
even  got  my  suspicion  that  he  was  back  of  that  lady  who 
paid  my  hospital  bill  last  winter.  He  knew  I  wouldn't 
let  him  help  if  I  knew  it." 

Villageoise  remained  non-committal.  "Well,  suppose 
you  were  me!"  Zelie  cried  to  that  stony  silence.  "Sup- 
pose you'd  been  bom  a  vagabond,  and  the  world  had 
played  ball  with  you,  and  then  one  clean  man  liked  you 
the  straight  way !" 

Her  own  words  broke  her  down  at  last;  she  ran  to 
Villageoise,  and  flung  herself,  sobbing  wildly,  against  the 
tortoise-shell  fur. 

"My  God !  Why  don't  I  hate  her?  Why  don't  I  twist 
that  yellow  hair  around  her  neck  so  tight  that  she  never 
breathes  again?  Why  can't  I?  Because  I  love  her,  I  tell 
you!  I'm  going  to  see  her  a  success,  if  it  takes  all  the 
fight  there  is  in  me.  Oh,  I'm  a  fool,  I  know  it,  a  fool! 
I'd  like  to  hate  her,  but  you  could  easier  hate  roses  and 
stars." 

Her  wild  sobs  and  cries,  elemental,  undisciplined  as  the 
cries  of  some  creature  of  the  woods,  rose  higher  and  higher 


206   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

until  they  beat  themselves  out  in  sheer  exhaustion.  No 
sound  remained  except  the  flapping  of  the  court's  iron 
gate  which  Philip  had  left  open;  rusty  and  hoarse  with 
age,  the  gate  squawked  mournfully  back  and  forth. 


CHAPTER  XI 
ROOF  O'  DREAMS 


ON  that  same  evening,  Bee  pushed  aside  her  din- 
ner plate  in  languid  distaste. 
"Please,  dear  1"  she  begged  off.    "It's  too  warm 
for  anything  but  the  salad  and  fruit." 

Half  dazed  by  all  that  had  happened,  she  had  hurried 
home  from  the  park  to  greet  a  depressed  and  preoccu- 
pied Helen.  For  a  moment,  this  mood  had  caused  Bee 
acute  anxiety;  Helen  was  not  herself;  could  it  be  that 
she  in  any  way  knew ? 

"The  country  must  be  lovely.  I've  been  walking  in 
the  Park  now,  to  play  I  was  out  of  town,"  she  had  said, 
nervously  forestalling  questions. 

Helen  had  made  no  response  to  this.  An  instant  of 
panic-stricken  self-consciousness  had  caused  Bee  to  flush 
deeply;  then  her  own  preoccupation  had  surged  back, 
washing  away  every  other  thought.  If  only  she  could 
escape,  could  think  alone! 

"I'm  rather  tired.  I'll  go  to  the  roof  and  rest."  She 
was  leaving  her  strawberries  unfinished. 

"Take  your  sweater.  These  spring  evenings  are  treach- 
erous." 

207 


208   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Bee  went  for  it.  She  always  wore  it  on  the  roof.  But 
now,  as  she  met  its  frank  boyishness,  it  repelled  her.  A 
sweater  didn't  belong  to  her  mood  to-night.  It  was  angu- 
lar and  efficient,  it  suggested  enterprise,  the  day's  work 
capably  abetted  by  its  snug  fit  and  free  arms.  No,  she 
couldn't  bear  a  sweater  to-night!  She  must  have  some 
languorous  wrap — a  clinging  oriental  shawl  for  lean- 
ing and  dreaming  would  be  the  thing,  but  only  old 
ladies  wore  shawls  nowadays  .  .  .  ah,  her  evening 
cloak  I 

She  drew  it  from  its  hanger.  It  was  a  marvellous  frosty 
green,  pale  as  a  Luna  moth's  wing.  Luxuriously  she 
nestled  in  the  folds  of  its  silken  lining.  She  started  for 
the  roof. 

Helen's  finely  cut  nostrils  dilated  slightly  at  the  sight. 

"A  sooty  roof  should  improve  the  appearance  of  a  pale 
green  evening  cloak!'* 

"I'll  be  ever  so  careful,  truly.  It  won't  get  a  speck, 
and  if  it  does,  I'll  clean  it  myself,  with  gasoline." 

"It  will  be  done  by  the  dry  cleanser  for  five  dollars." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  swerved.  The  old  Bee  would 
have  gone  back  for  the  sweater ;  but  now  came  the  thought, 
it  was  her  own  cloak!  To  be  sure,  she  had  not  bought 
it,  but  neither  had  Helen ;  it  had  been  a  gift  from  Cousin 
Hess. 

"If  it  does  have  to  go  to  the  cleanser,  I'll  pay  for  it 
out  of  my  allowance,"  she  said  coldly,  and  went. 

Alone  on  her  Roof  o'  Dreams,  Bee  drew  a  long  breath 
of  release.  At  last  she  was  high  above  the  turmoil  of 
life;  at  last  she  could  think.     And  yet  how  could  she 


ROOF  O'  DREAMS  209 

think,  in  the  face  of  all  that  had  taken  place?  Any 
attempt  to  readjust  her  mental  world  at  present  was  like 
trying  to  pick  up  a  town  and  set  it  back  in  place  after 
a  cyclone's  visit. 

She  walked  restlessly  to  the  parapet.  Far  away  the 
lights  of  the  city's  heart  made  a  murky  glare.  Nearer, 
she  could  trace  the  bright  lines  that  were  busy  thorough- 
fares, the  duller  channels  that  were  less-frequented  streets. 
Dim  towers  pricked  the  twilight  sky  here  and  there;  even 
the  looming  tanks  and  pent-shafts  on  near-by  buildings 
took  on  a  certain  dignity,  sombre  monoliths  rearing  them- 
selves against  the  sky. 

Her  steamer  chair  awaited  her  under  its  canopy.  She 
sank  back  against  its  cushions.  She  was  exceedingly 
weary  from  the  day's  excitement,  but  weary  beyond  the 
point  where  rest  ensues.  Her  brain  was  agitated  to  a 
keen  wakefulness. 

That  adjustment  to  the  inevitable  which  nature  so 
mercifully  arranges  for  us  had  helped  Bee  over  the  weeks 
during  which  she  had  looked  upon  Philip  as  lost.  But 
now  all  the  longings  had  been  roused  again,  and  to  an 
intensity  tenfold  greater  than  before.  As  the  swift  heat 
had  released  the  ready  leaves  into  sudden  bursting,  so 
those  afternoon  hours  had  forced  into  a  full  blooming 
her  pent  emotions.  She  was  no  longer  vaguely  dreamy. 
Her  overwrought  brain  teemed  with  vivid  memories  of 
each  minute  incident,  each  insignificant  word. 

AU  the  occurrences  of  those  brief  hours  whirled  before 
her,  as  if  they  were  a  reel  in  which  the  same  pictures  re- 
peated themselves  endlessly.    Over  and  over  she  saw  Philip 


210   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

as  he  entered  Zelie's  door,  and  stood  dumbfounded  at 
sight  of  her;  the  squirrel  coming  to  meet  them;  A.  D.  T. 
barking  at  it ;  Philip  as  he  walked  beside  her  in  the  woods ; 
Philip  as  he  drew  her  down  to  the  log 

And  so  it  went  on.  Each  scene,  each  word  repictured. 
And,  forcing  their  way  as  they  never  had  forced  before, 
the  longings  now  seized  upon  her:  longings  for  that  per- 
fect companionship  which  she  visualised;  for  relief  from 
that  loneliness  of  intellect  and  soul  which  Philip's  absence 
now  meant  to  her. 

Was  it  wrong,  she  paused  once  to  ask  herself,  to  long 
so  desperately  for  her  lover?  Was  it  unwomanly.?  Could 
it  be  true,  as  the  novelists  would  have  us  believe,  that 
maiden  charm  and  dignity  consists  in  sitting  remotely 
aloft  upon  a  pedestal  of  ice? 

Unenlightened,  pitifully  new  to  life,  from  which  her 
mother  had  "shielded"  her  for  nineteen  years.  Bee  heard 
her  strange  gods  speaking  through  Helen's  voice  alone, 
condemning  to  outer  darkness  all  the  pure  and  womanl}'- 
passion  of  youth,  leaving  it  to  cry  alone  in  that  dark- 
ness, unheard.  And,  seeking  in  blind  obedience  to  obey 
those  gods'  teachings,  she  wrestled  there  alone  with  her 
tortured  emotions.  They  cried  out  in  their  pain;  they 
claimed  their  own ;  they  struggled  to  assert  their  purity 
— a  purity  founded  on  the  truth  that  is  the  very  essence 
of  life — ^but  Bee  fought  on.  At  last  she  conquered.  Little 
by  little  they  fell  back.  She  had  found  rest  at  last — 
the  rest  which  despair  brings,  a  rest  in  which  the  heart 
sinks  with  the  sagging  muscles,  and  the  sense  of  oblivion 
follows  the  desire  for  it. 


ROOF  O'  DREAMS  211 

n 

Helen  lingered  alone  over  her  coffee,  forehead  in  hand. 

"Matter  with  you,  Nell?" 

She  had  not  heard  the  doorbell,  so  deep  was  she  in 
troubled  thought.  And  here  was  Ress  bustling  in,  more 
than  ever  cheerful,  more  than  ever  be-figured  over  with 
a  new  foulard  design  of  uncommonly  ample  size. 

"Good !"  she  greeted  her  cousin.  "You  look  like  a  stiff 
breeze  to  blow  away  glooms.  I'll  have  fresh  coffee 
brought." 

"I  made  a  point  of  being  in  time  for  coffee.  Don't 
dump  any  worries  on  to  me  till  I  get  it — then,  Barkis  is 
willin',"  she  offered,  in  the  idiom  of  an  earlier  genera- 
tion. 

"You  shall  have  a  dozen  cups  and  not  a  single  worry. 
I've  no  desire  to  spill  over." 

Nevertheless,  at  the  end  of  the  first  cup,  Ress  displayed 
sympathy.     "Work  going  badly?" 

"Going  wonderfully,  on  the  contrary.  Mr.  McNab 
owned  to-day  that  the  experiment  already  looks  like  a 
brilliant  success." 

"I  always  knew  it  would !  Well,  then,  there's  only  one 
other  problem  that  could  drive  you  to  the  point  of  wear- 
ing your  prettiest  filet  collar  crooked — ^namely,  Bee. 
Where  is  she,  by  the  way?" 

Helen  reached  up  in  startled  fastidiousness  to  adjust 
the  collar,  and  shrugged  at  the  same  time  to  indicate 
that  no  disturbance  lay  in  Bee's  direction. 

"On  the  roof.  We're  moody  this  warm  weather.  We 
wander  in  the  Park  and  don't  want  dinner,  and  we  de- 


212   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

part  in  our  light-green  evening  cloak  to  commune  with 
nature."  Again  Helen  shrugged.  "I  suppose  there  must 
still  be  glooms  at  times,  when  she  happens  to  remember 
the  lovely  boy  doll  that  was  snatched  away  before  she 
had  a  chance  to  play  with  it.'* 

Miss  Clifton  seemed  to  be  weighing  some  question. 
**YouVe  never  described  the  youth  to  me.  Do  you  mean 
that  literally?    Is  he  a  boy  doll?" 

"Well,  no.  I  was  indulging  in  a  figure  of  speech.  He 
isn't." 

"What  type  is  he?" 

Helen  sipped  her  coffee.  Then  she  faced  the  older 
woman  with  a  fling  of  defiant  honesty. 

"He's  altogether  as  manly  a  type  as  you're  likely  to 
find.  I've  happened  to  meet  his  Chief,  Mr.  Frost,  who 
bears  out  my  impressions.  The  boy  is  of  fine  stock, 
well  educated,  clever,  and  with  a  certain  quality  that 
makes  for  success — it's  a  poise,  a  quiet  daring,  an  instinct 
to  master  the  situation  rather  than  be  mastered  by  it. 
In  short,  he's  a  very  dangerous  variety,  and  I'm  only 
too  glad  that  I  nipped  matters  in  the  bud." 

For  a  long  pause  they  sipped  in  silence.  Cousin  Ress 
dissolving  two  large  lumps  in  her  demi-tasse,  Helen  drink- 
ing hers  in  lean  absence  of  sweetening.  But  something 
was  swelling  within  the  be-figured  foulard  bosom.  There 
came  an   outburst   at  last. 

"Nell  Kent,  sometimes  I  think  you're  actually  crazy 
— ought  to  be  confined  where  you  couldn't  do  damage! 
You've  hugged  your  own  trouble  till  you  can't  see  any- 
thing else.  'Just  because  you  picked  a  rose  that  held 
a  bee  that  stung  your  nose,'  you  want  the  rest  of  the 


ROOF  0'  DREAMS  213 

world,  in  particular  your  own  daughter,  to  stop  picking 
roses,  do  you?  For  heaven's  sake,  if  there  isn't  anything 
the  matter  with  the  chap,  why  couldn't  you  let  the  poor 
child  have  him?" 

Helen  played  with  her  spoon  and  did  not  look  up.  Her 
lips  were  vanishing  within,  as  a  grim  determination  drew 
them  closer  and  closer. 

"Haven't  we  thrashed  that  matter  out  enough,  Ress? 
You  know  my  intentions." 

"We'll  never  have  thrashed  it  out  enough  till  you 
come  to  your  senses.  Why  in  the  name  of  sanity  you 
want  to  spoil  what  might  have  been  a  perfectly  good  love 
affair " 

"That's  exactly  the  point.  She  may  have  all  the  young 
men  she  wants  for  friends.  But  this  would  have  been 
genuine,  no  transient  flirtation.  I  felt  it  in  both  of 
them." 

"Then  you're  a  fool.  I'm  not  sure  but  you're  worse. 
Maybe  you're  a  murderess.  To  kill  anything  as  pure  and 
alive  as  young  love " 

Helen  turned  angrily.     She  was  white. 

*'Kill  it?  I'd  risk  everything  I  might  ever  possess  to 
kill  it — before  it  should  have  a  chance  to  kill  my  child! 
Do  you  suppose  that  fragile,  lovely  soul  of  hers  would 
ever  survive  the  nightmare  of  disillusion  that  love  is? 
She's  as  sensitive  as  a  flower;  she  lives  in  her  imagina- 
tion; she's  as  fine  as  poetry  or  music.  When  the  awak- 
ening came,  it  would  kill  her  outright!  I'll  save  her,  I 
tell  you!"  Her  voice  shook  with  passion.  "I'U  save 
her  from  it  no  matter  what  it  means  to  accomplish  the 
rescue !    How  would  that  sensitive  plant  ever  survive  when 


2145      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

I — ^I,  as  hard  as  she  is  soft — I,  made  of  steel  and  tem- 
pered bj  years — am  no  stronger  than  tJiisr'  She  pointed 
to  her  left  hand,  which  trembled  where  it  rested. 

"It's  been  shaking  like  that  ever  since  noon,'*  she  went 
on,  torn  by  her  own  white  violence.  "And  why.''  Be- 
cause, as  I  came  out  from  the  office,  I  ran  across  some- 
one who  resembled — a  memory.  The  likeness  at  first 
glance  was  so  striking  that  I  started  as  if  I  had  come 
upon  the  dead  walking.  At  second  glance  there  was  no 
similarity,  of  course — only  a  forlorn,  middle-aged  man 
— the  resemblance  was  elusive,  something  in  carriage, 
gesture,  expression — ^but  the  shock  of  that  instant's  fancy 
has  left  me  a  wreck  ever  since.  And  after  nineteen  years ! 
Ress  Clifton,  can  you  wonder  that  I'd  give  my  life  to 
save  the  one  creature  on  earth  that  I  love  with  every 
breath  I  draw — to  save  her  from  what  I  have  been 
through  .^" 


m 


An  hour  later  Miss  Clifton  said  good  night  and  en- 
tered the  elevator.  Helen  had  accompanied  her  to  its 
door,  had  rung  the  bell,  and  now  saw  her  started  on  the 
journey  down.  But  no  sooner  had  the  cage  been  swal- 
lowed from  Plelen's  view,  than  a  purposeful  pucker  drew 
Miss  Clifton's  neatly  moulded  little  mouth. 

"Now,"  she  instructed  the  elevator  girl,  "you  may 
reverse,  and  take  me  to  the  top  floor." 

The  girl  turned  to  stare  at  her  erratic  passenger,  but 
her  hand  obeyed  the  remarkable  order. 

At  the  top  floor  Miss  Clifton  alighted,  and  proceeded 


ROOF  0'  DREAMS  215 

up  the  one  flight  of  stairs  to  the  roof.  She  had  never 
visited  the  roof  of  an  apartment  building  before;  she 
had  supposed  these  retreats  given  over  to  the  hanging 
of  washings  and  the  affaires-dw-coeur  of  maids  and  hall- 
boys.  Now,  some  hundred  feet  above  the  city,  she  stepped 
forth  into  an  amazing  sweep  of  sky  and  stars  and  tower 
tips  and  clean  night  air.  "No  wonder  the  child  comes 
here  for  refuge!"  she  commented. 

Her  comment  was  quickly  altered,  and  she  lifted  her 
skirts  gingerly  as  she  felt  the  tar  of  the  roof  clinging 
with  affectionate  warmth  to  the  Louis  Fifteenth  heels 
of  her  new  colonial  pumps.  And  her  beautiful  foulard 
would  probably  be  ruined  by  melting  tar — that  design 
of  floral  wreaths  could  never  be  replaced  in  these  post- 
war days  of  difficult  shopping!  How  preposterous  to 
have  followed  her  impulse  and  come  to  this  outlandish 
place!  An  idiot  she  was,  to  be  sure,  forever  going  ofl^ 
half-cocked! At  that  moment  she  came  upon  Bee. 

The  girl  was  leaning  back  wearily  in  the  steamer  chair, 
her  loose  hair  blown  about  her  face.  In  the  darkness 
she  looked  pale  and  dim,  a  ghost-girl.  The  pansies  gave 
ofl^  a  faint,  sweet  odour  in  the  stirring  air.  The  edge 
of  the  canopy  kept  up  a  small  flapping  noise,  like  feeble 
wings  in  troubled  beating.  Cousin  Ress  caught  her 
breath. 

"It's  all  very  lovely,  child!" 

Bee  turned  languidly;  then,  recognising  her  visitor, 
sprang  up.  "Cousin  Ress!  I  never  thought  of  anyone 
but  the  elevator  girl  coming  here.  Helen  never  comes — 
she  thinks  it's  sooty,  but  really  it  isn't — much."     Bee 


216  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

had  her  guest  plumped  into  the  steamer  chair,  and  was 
perching  on  a  stool  at  her  feet. 

"Cousin  Ress,  dear,  I  don't  mean  any  disrespect  to 
the  cloak  you  gave  me  by  wearing  it  here,"  she  poured 
forth  in  apology.  "I'm  taking  the  best  care  of  it.  It's  so 
lovely — and  up  here,  with  my  flowers— somehow  I  couldn't 
resist  it!" 

"Humph !"  responded  Cousin  Ress.  She  did  not  enlarge 
upon  the  monosyllable  at  that  moment.  She  was  engaged 
in  solving  the  problem  of  making  herself  at  ease  in  the 
steamer  chair,  where  she  poised  uncomfortably  in  rock- 
ing roundness,  about  as  able  to  recline  as  an  apple. 
Settling  as  best  she  could:  "So  it  wasn't  approved  of — 
your  wearing  it  up  here?"  she  inquired. 

"I  suppose  it  did  seem  foolish,"  was  the  extenuating 
reply. 

"Humph !"  said  Cousin  Ress  again.  "Isn't  it  an  eve- 
ning cloak?  And  isn't  it  now  evening?  You  wouldn't 
wear  it  on  Fifth  Avenue  at  the  lunch  hour,  I  hope." 
She  changed  the  subject  with  alarming  abruptness.  "Look 
here,  Bee;  who's  the  young  man  you  meet  up  here?" 

"Cousin  Ress  !'*  The  mere  exclamation  was  indignant 
denial.  Bee  rose,  quivering,  panting.  "What  can  you 
mean,  suspecting  me  like  that?  I've  never  spoken  to  a 
soul  up  here,  I  come  to  be  alone " 

"There,  there,  child,  sit  down.  Goodness  gracious, 
don't  I  know  it!  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  Tom, 
Dick  or  Harry  popped  up  from  a  trap-door  to  join 
you.  But  when  a  youngster  of  your  age  comes  off  by 
herself  time  after  time,  it's  not  to  be  alone — in  her 
thoughts."     She  had  drawn  Bee  back  to  the  stool  at 


ROOF  O*  DREAMS  21T 

her  feet,  and  now  she  laid  a  hand  upon  the  girl's  shoulder, 
clasping  it  with  her  fat  little  fingers  upon  which  num- 
berless rings  twinkled. 

"You're  meeting  some  young  man — in  your  thoughts, 
my  dear,  I  repeat.  Oh,  I  may  be  a  spinster  and  fifty- 
nine,  but  I'm  no  old  fool,"  she  continued.  "Sometimes  I 
think  that  the  only  women  who  know  anything  about 
either  their  own  sex  or  the  other  are  the  spinsters  of 
this  world.  A  married  woman  has  lost  her  broad,  fl3ring 
bird's-eye  view;  she  huddles  in  her  own  little  nest  and 
peeps  with  one  eye  cocked  now  and  then.  To  my  way  of 
thinking,  nobody  knows  as  little  about  marriage  as  the 
married.  But  those  of  us  that  roam  the  sky  with  unfet- 
tered wings" — in  illustration  Cousin  Ress  flapped  two 
fat  arms — "we  keep  our  sense  of  perspective." 

Bee  was  listening  intently,  and  as  Cousin  Ress*s  de- 
fense of  the  single  state  drew  to  a  wheezy  close,  she  sud- 
denly flung  her  arms  over  the  older  woman's  knees,  and 
searched  her  round,  sagacious  little  face. 

"Cousin  Ress,  dear!  I  always  felt  that  there  was 
something  about  you  like — ^like — "  Bee  stumbled.  *'You 
won't  mind,  will  you?  Like  a  pillow  made  of  the  warm- 
est down,  so  that  one  just  longs  to  snuggle  and  cry  it 
out  into  the  pillow.  I  mean  that  your  heart  is  like  that — 
you  understand,  don't  you?" 

"I  quite  understand,  my  child,  that  no  allusion  to  my 
figure  was  intended."  Cousin  Ress  drew  her  closer. 
"Bless  your  poor  little  heart — snuggle  then,  and  cry,  if 
you  want  to." 

"I  don't.  But  I'd  like  to  think  I  might;  if— if 
ever " 


218  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"Here's  my  hand  on  it.  Bee,  do  you  want  to  tell  me 
anything?'' 

Face  hidden  in  Miss  Clifton's  ample  lap,  the  golden 
head  was  shaken  in  negative. 

"All  right.  I  won't  ask.  But  you  can  count  on 
me." 

The  head  nodded. 

At  length  Bee  raised  it,  and  said,  "Isn't  it  queer,  since 
there  isn't  any  God,  as  of  course  we  all  know,  that  some- 
times it  should  feel  exactly  as  though  there  were  one?*' 

Miss  Clifton  locked  her  lips.  She  and  Helen  had  had 
that  out  long  ago. 

"It's  since  I've  been  up  here  alone  so  much,  near  the 
sky,  that  I've  noticed  it.  When  I'm  down  below,  I  know 
that  it's  an  illusion.  But  up  here,  when  I  come  with — 
troubles — I  get  a  feelmg  that  somebody — no,  rather 
something — ^is  listening  and  wanting  to  help.  As  though 
it  would  help  if  I  knew  how  to  give  way,  and  let  it.  I 
don't  know  how  to  describe  it;  it's  not  like  a  person, 
but  it's  a  big,  soft  something  that  seems  to  flow  all 
around,  like  some  finer  kind  of  air.  Sometimes  it  car- 
ries me  along,  as  if  I  were  a  little  boat  sailing  on  that 
air,  and  as  long  as  I  let  it  carry  me  the  little  boat  can't 
be  tipped  over  or  harmed  in  any  way.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear,  Vm 
mixing  my  metaphors  dreadfully!"  she  sighed.  "I  sup- 
pose it's  the  same  sort  of  illusion  that  has  kept  people 
duped  all  these  centuries,  don't  you?" 

Miss  Clifton's  lip  smarted  where  she  was  biting  it. 
Long  ago  Helen  had  exacted  her  pledge  of  non-inter- 
ference on  this  matter.     She  rose. 

"I  must  go,  child.     But  my  advice  is:  stick  to  your 


ROOF  O'  DREAMS  219 

roof.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  want  you  to  use  this  green 
cloak  up  here — ^in  fact,  I'm  very  particular  that  you 
should.  You  need  it  these  cool  evenings.  I  shall  send 
you  another  wrap  for  parties." 

"Cousin  Ress!     You  darling,  darlmg  DEAR!" 
But  Cousin  Ress  waited  for  only  one  hug  of  thanks, 
which  she  curtly  returned.     Lifting  her  Louis  Fifteenth 
heels  over  the  tar  with  the  dainty  flicks  of  a  cat  minc- 
ing through,  dampness,  she  hurried  away. 


CHAPTER  XII 
SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN 


IT  was  three  days  since  Bee's  adventure  with  spring, 
and  the  warmth  still  held.  Helen  rose  lazily  from 
her  oiBce  desk  and  threw  open  the  window.  Across 
the  languorous  air  a  whifF  of  violets  flitted  to  her.  She 
looked  forth  between  dun,  perpendicular  walls ;  they  rose 
like  fastnesses  to  imprison  dream  and  desire;  but  in  spite 
of  them,  the  view  beyond  beckoned.  Grass  showed  green 
in  the  old  churchyard,  tourists  were  loitering  among  the 
headstones,  reading  famous  inscriptions  with  leisurely 
pleasure.  Even  lovers  were  enticed  here  by  the  tripping 
spring;  a  pair  of  them  clung  openly  in  the  church- 
yard. 

"Young  idiots,"  Helen  observed.  Unable  to  direct 
her  observation  to  the  lovers  themselves,  she  used  Miss 
Muldoon  as  target. 

"It's  the  girl,  however,  who's  the  chief  idiot,"  she  elu- 
cidated. 

"So  I  understood  you  to  mean,"  Miss  Muldoon  re- 
sponded demurely,  her  eyes  bent  upon  a  carbon  copy. 
"Yes — ^I   understood  what   you   meant.     What   I   don't 

understand "  Here  she  broke  off  with  a  blush,  and  fell 

220 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN       221 

to  correcting  the  blurred  carbon  copy  with  sudden  zeal. 

Helen  noted  the  broken  question  with  languid  interest. 
"What  is  it  you  don't  understand?  Whatever  it  is,  you 
ought  to.     You're  at  the  idiot  age  yourself." 

Miss  Muldoon  bit  a  red,  smooth  lip  and  hesitated. 
Then  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  met  Helen's  fully. 

^'With  all  your  talk  to  us  girls  all  the  time  like 
that,  Mrs.  Kent — how  we're  fools  to  fall  in  love,  and 
all  like  that — ^you  never  said — what  I  mean,  however 
do  you  expect"  (Miss  Muldoon's  blushing  had  become 
furious) — "expect  the  world  to  keep  on,  if  we  don't  be 
that  kind  of  fool?" 

Helen  smiled.  "You  sound  like  some  wrinkled,  dis- 
traught old  celibate  sociologist,  my  child.  The  professors 
are  so  anxious  over  the  abstract  question  of  what's  to 
become  of  the  world,  that  they  lose  track  of  such  con- 
crete questions  as  what's  to  become  of  Maybelle  Mul- 
doon. Apparently  a  small  matter;  but  I  beg  to  remind 
them  that  it's  the  multiplication  of  the  individual  May- 
belle  Muldoons  that  makes  up  half  our  population.  As 
for  the  other  half,  since  its  desires  lead  to  our  undoing 
— ^why  should  we  care?  All  of  you  young  fools  will 
walk  into  the  noose,  will  you,  and  so  perpetuate  a  race 
of  unhappy  women?"  she  demanded,  sharpening.  "Since 
marriage  inevitably  brings  unhappiness  to  a  woman,  let 
us  bring  it  to  an  endt  Nature  can't  force  upon  us  a 
world  that  is  not  made  to  fit  our  needs — there's  no  obli- 
gation on  our  part  to  accept  such  a  world  by  perpetu- 
ating it.'* 

"But  I  know  some  married  women  that  are  happy — " 
mildly  protested  Miss  Maybelle  Muldoon. 


222   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"Bluff,  my  child.  Never  believe  th^t  lie.  So,  as  to 
the  world  and  women — ^let  those  of  us  that  are  here  get 
what  we  can  out  of  it,  as  I  tell  my  daughter — and  that's 
a  good  deal,  if  we  crush  out  illusion.  As  to  the  future, 
let  the  race  die  for  want  of  replenishing,  since  nature's 
trick  for  replenishing  means  wreck  to  woman." 

Miss  Muldoon  mused  a  pace.  She  was  recollecting  a 
brief  visit  that  daughter  had  once  paid  to  the  office  when 
Helen  was  absent.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  Miss  Muldoon,  you  ought  to  be  married  and  have 
a  darling  little  house  to  do  such  things  in!  It's  wicked 
for  you  to  be  wasted  on  an  office !"  The  subject  of  cook- 
ing had  chanced  to  come  up,  and  Miss  Muldoon  had 
revealed  her  profound  and  affectionate  knowledge  of 
the  art. 

"Miss  Kent!    What  would  your  mother  say  to  that!" 

Hesitation — a  flush — then,  breaking  loose 

"Oh,  dear  Miss  Muldoon,  don't  let  my  mother — -I — I 
mean — ^you  ought  to  be  happy,  no  matter  what  anybody 
says  !'* 

What  a  queer  person  this  Mrs.  Kent  was,  anyway, 
ran  the  inward  comment  now  of  Maybelle.  Anybody 
might  think  she  was  crazy,  the  way  she  was  always 
preaching  against  marriage  to  the  girls  of  the  Monroe 
— and  maybe  she  was,  and  no  joke!  She  was  the  smart- 
est woman  that  Maybelle  had  ever  knovm,  took  your 
breath  away  when  she  handled  insurance,  but  smart  people 
could  be  batty  on  one  subject — she  had  heard  this  often, 
and  she  almost  believed  it!  Like  Miss  Clifton,  she  knew 
nothing  of  psychology,  but  she  did  know  a  thing  or  two 
about  what  she  believed  this  world  was  designed  for. 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN      223 

She  turned  to  her  employer  and  met  the  jetty  eye 
without  flinching. 

"Sociologists,  and  perpetuating,  and  those  kind  of 
things  are  Greek  to  me.  All  I  know  is,  I've  got  a  hope- 
chest  home.  I  sew  for  it  every  night.  I've  finished  the 
doilies  and  centrepieces  and  guest-towels  and  napkins. 
And  now  I^m  doing  the — the  darlingest — ^little  Gertrude 
petticoat.  I'm  scalloping  it."  And  Miss  Muldoon  bent 
in  final  surrender  to  the  blushes  which  were  now  over- 
whelming. 


Helen  "humphed,"  and  turned  once  more  to  the  open 
window.  She  must  take  up  this  matter  again  on  some  day 
when  the  weather  did  not  so  conspire  with  youth  against 
her.  Again  that  sharp  sweetness  of  violets  came  to  her, 
bringing  with  it  deeper  stabs  than  its  own  fleeting  beauty. 
She  had  climbed  California  fences  at  eighteen  to  rob 
purple  beds  of  their  bloom.  It  had  been  one  of  the 
popular  university  pranks  to  steal  violets  where  they 
could  be  had  for  the  asking,  and  she  and  Vernon  had 
thrilled  at  the  adventure  on  those  spring  days — ^"just 
twenty-one  springs  ago,"  she  caught  her  thoughts  saying, 
and  she  shrugged  at  the  sentimentality.  And  again  that 
scent  came  to  her  from  somewhere — that  scent  than  whicli 
none  is  more  fraught  with  the  meaning  of  spring,  more 
exquisitely  alive,  more  subtly  sad  in  its  suggestion  of 
evanescent  loveliness,  like  certain  music — Grieg's  To 
Spring,  for  instance.  .  .  . 

Minutes  later  Helen  became  aware  that  Miss  Muldoon 


224   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

was  replying  to  a  knock.  "I've  been  wool-gathering," 
she  accused  herself.  "Yes,  come  in,  do,  Dr.  Aspden!" 
As  he  entered  from  the  main  corridor,  "I  hope  you  are 
feeling  chatty.  There  really  isn^t  any  work  m  me  this 
demoralising  day!"  She  closed  her  roll-top  with  a  ges- 
ture of  despair. 

"I  came  to  say  that  my  car  is  at  the  door,  and  I  should 
be  glad  to  drop  you  at  your  home."  Looking  down  upon 
her  gravely  from  his  austere  height,  he  might  have  been 
offering  a  prescription. 

She  smiled  up  at  him  as  the  desk  lock  sprang  shut. 
**It's  outrageously  early  for  me,  but  I'm  reckless.  I 
don't  care  what  becomes  of  anybody's  policy.  I  have 
no  business  to  leave  this  office,  but  I'm  going  to.  Miss 
Muldoon,  do  you  do  likewise.  If  you  stay  on  toiling,  you 
will  haunt  me  like  a  memory  of  guilt.  .Go  forth  and 
do  anything — anything  conceivable,  this  intoxicating  day, 
except  fall  in  love!" 

Miss  Muldoon  rose  with  a  demure  "Thank  you."  Her 
blue  orbs  paused,  regarding  first  her  employer,  then  her 
employer's  guest,  and  returned  to  rest  upon  Helen.  And 
the  gaze  cast  by  Miss  Muldoon  was  profound  and  enig- 
matical. 

Miss  Maybelle  Muldoon  turned  back  to  close  her  own 
desk.  Making  ready  to  leave  it,  she  took  from  its  small- 
est, most  secret  drawer,  a  thimble  and  a  pair  of  fine 
embroidery  scissors,  and  slipped  them  into  her  handbag. 

"So  she  even  snatches  off -hours  at  the  office  for  it!" 
Helen  groaned  inwardly ;  but  her  thoughts  could  spare  no 
more  time  for  the  hopeful  Miss  Muldoon. 

"You  shall  see  how  quickly  a  woman  can  get  ready," 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN      225 

she  boasted  to  her  guest.  Opening  the  wardrobe,  she 
took  down  what  Bee  called  her  "tall"  cape,  the  crisply 
wing-trimmed  hat,  the  gleaming  summer  fur  that  shone 
like  her  own  jettiness.  "YouVe  so  lanky-lovely  and  slip- 
pery-black in  all  these  togs,  darling!"  Bee  had  cried 
in  a  moment  of  impulsiveness  like  that  of  the  old  Bee, 
holding  Helen  at  arm's-length  on  the  day  when  the  spring 
outfit  had  been  completed.  "You  look  like  one  of  those 
long,  thin  jet  sequins  that  dangle  on  your  own  evening 
gown." 

A  few  deft  movements  now,  and  she  was  done.  "Ready !" 
she  smiled  up  at  Dr.  Aspden. 

Miss  Muldoon  was  waiting  to  put  the  office  in  order. 
"I  forgot  to  say,"  she  said  as  Helen  was  departing,  "that 
a  gentleman  called  up  while  you  were  in  conference." 

"No  message?" 

"None  whatever.  He  did  say  something  that  sounded 
funny,  though.  I  said,  'Will  you  call  again?'  and  he 
said  what  sounded  like,  *That  depends  on  fate,'  and  when 
I  asked  him  *What?'  he  rang  off." 

"How  ridiculous!"  Helen  dismissed  the  matter  with 
a  gesture.  But,  in  the  hall,  some  caprice  of  curiosity 
led  her  back. 

"Did  it  sound — old  or  young?"  she  inquired,  and  won- 
dered why. 

Miss   Muldoon   paused   to    consider.      "I    should    say 

about — about — your    age — that    is,    I    mean "    she 

stumbled. 

Helen  laughed.  "That  is  very  definite,  my  child.  I 
am  a  lady  of  no  uncertain  age.  Now  run  along  and  play." 
Closing  the  door  behind  her,   "Don't   you  think,"   she 


226   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

demanded  audaciously,  with  a  defiant  flash  into  the  eyes 
above,  "that  thirty-nine,  which  happened  to  me  last  week, 
brings   me   to   a   delightfully   certain   age?" 

"Less  certain,  I  should  say,  than  twenty,  but  far  more 
delightful.  Do  you  find  that  my  additional  eight  years 
puts  me  into  the  class  of  hopeless  senility?" 

She  thought  at  that  moment  that  she  had  never  seen 
him  look  less  those  additional  eight  years.  The  spring 
was  capering,  somehow,  even  though  his  incorruptible 
dignity — ^a  dignity  that  she  had  seen  put  to  the  ulti- 
mate test. 

"Now,"  she  told  him,  "as  Bequita  says,  we're  friends, 
because  we  have  told  ages."  And  they  laughed  together 
after  a  manner  not  noticeably  older  than  that  of  Be- 
quita herself. 

He  excused  himself  for  a  moment  to  slip  back  from 
the  corridor  into  his  own  office.  He  returned  at  once 
bearing  a  great  bouquet  of  violets. 

"How's  this?"  she  cried.  "I  stood  at  my  window  and 
smelled  them,  and  now  they  arrive  by  another  route. 
Have  they  some  occult  power  of  projecting  their  astral 
scent?" 

"Their  only  power  is  to  show  which  way  the  wind 
blows,  I  fancy.  They  have  been  in  my  window,  awaiting 
the  hour  when  I  might  offer  them."  With  them  he 
presented  the  long  purple-headed  pin  of  the  florist's  con- 
vention. 

She  took  them  with  an  inward  smile  at  the  bachelor 
reticence  that  had  held  them  back  in  Miss  Muldoon's 
presence.  ^'They  have  been  teasing  me  sinfully,"  she 
said,  as  she  pinned  them  boldly,  the  great  mass  of  purple. 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN      22T 

against  her  breast.  "They  and  the  south  wind  together 
have  driven  work  altogether  out  of  my  head.  Oh,  it's 
spring  I"  Impetuously  she  gave  vent  to  a  full  stretch; 
the  movement  was  like  a  strong  light  suddenly  cast  upon 
her  long  lines,  her  freedom  of  posture,  the  clever  lean- 
ness of  her  costume,  her  own  vivid  black-and-whiteness 
with  the  daring  contrast  of  purple  flowers.  And  from 
the  austere  gravity  of  long  bachelorhood,  Dr.  Aspden 
looked  down  upon  her. 


in 


He  was  driving  his  own  car  that  afternoon,  and  he 
tucked  her  in  beside  him.  Broadway  choked  their  prog- 
ress for  a  space;  but  he  wove  skillfully,  on  through  the 
maggoty  swarms  of  Washington  Square,  past  the  stately 
old  red-brick  aristocracy  near  by,  into  the  congestion 
and  buffetings  of  the  shopping  district,  crossing,  writh- 
ing, emerging,  and — the  river  at  last.  Here  was  space; 
here  was  a  toying  air;  here  the  wide  sweep  of  water 
giving  back  blue  for  blue;  here  the  abandon  of  spring 
in  every  loitering  woman  slowly  pushing  a  baby-car- 
riage, in  all  the  bud-like  burst  of  clamouring  youngsters. 
It  was  as  if,  with  a  playful  shove,  spring  were  crying 
to  everyone,  "Off  you  go !" — and  off,  indeed,  you  must  go. 

"Do  you  wonder  that  I  chose  these  parts  for  my 
abode.'"'  she  asked  him.  "Look  at  my  glowing  nineteen- 
year  old,  and  tell  me,  as  a  physician,  if  I  didn't  choose 
well!" 

"I  should  like  to  look  at  her.  Although  in  tke  same 
room,  I  have  never  seen  her,   you  know,  owing  to   the 


228   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

interference  of  a  screen."  It  was  more  than,  a  month 
since  the  two  imps  within  two  pairs  of  eyes  had  met 
at  the  Spindle,  but  of  a  sudden  they  gleamed  a  recogni- 
tion. 

"Although  we  have  had  amicable  business  relations  for 
some  time,"  continued  Dr.  Aspden  deliberately,  "you  have 
never  invited  me  to  call!" 

"I've  never  had  a  chance  in  our  hurried  business  inter- 
views. This,  remember,  is  the  first  time  you  ever  brought 
me  home!" 

"I  suppose,  my  dear  madam,  I  should  be  looking  a 
gift  horse  in  the  mouth  to  complain  that  this  ride  is 
the  first  when  it  might  have  been  the  seventh.  Exactly 
six  times  have  I  stopped  at  your  door  and  offered  to 
spare  you  the  subway  jam." 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "and  exactly  six  times  have  I 
refused.     I  counted  them,  too,"  she  twinkled. 

"Then,  may  I  ask — idle  curiosity — ^is  there  some  magic 
in  the  number  seven?" 

She  laughed  and  shook  her  head.  "No.  But  the  day 
caught  me  this  time.  That  south  wind — and  the  violets. 
I  didn't  care  whether  school  kept  or  not — to-day." 

"The  car  would  have  waited  any  day  until  school  was 
out.  You  have  not  yet  explained  those  six  refusals.  If 
you  don't  fear  subway  suffocation  for  yourself,  at  least 
let  me  save  that  charming  hat  from  destruction!"  And 
the  bachelor  of  forty-seven  beamed  with  a  sudden  startled 
delight  at  his  own  words.  He  had  done  it  very  well!  he 
congratulated  himself. 

But  Helen  was  silent,  her  eyes  lost  on  the  Palisades 
beyond.     For  all  at  once  it  had  occurred  to  her  to  won- 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN      229 

der,  herself,  why  those  six  refusals?  Some  inhibition  that 
she  half  detected  but  could  not  have  explained 

"This  is  my  street,"  she  roused  to  say. 

He  slowed  down  the  car.  He  turned  to  her,  and  his 
eyes  fixed  themselves  very  firmly  upon  her  eyes. 

"This,  you  say,  is  your  street,"  stated  Dr.  Aspden 
deliberately.  "But  we  may  not  see  another  genuine 
spring  day  for  a  month.     You  have  already  renounced 

work.     And  so  have  I.     And "     To  the  right  lay 

Helen's  way,  hemmed  by  tall  apartment  buildings,  wall 
upon  wall  of  cliff  dwellings.  But  ahead  curved  the  Drive, 
on  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  flanking  the  blue  spring 
river 

"Let  us  suppose,"  continued  Dr.  Aspden,  "that  at  this 
point  the  car  becomes  unmanageable,  refuses  to  turn  to 
the  right,  forges  rapidly  ahead,  and  cannot  be  checked 
in  its  course." 


IV 


Across  the  snowy  table  of  a  brisk  wayside  hostelry, 
Mrs.  Kent  and  Dr.  Aspden  faced  one  another.  And 
imp  met  imp  once  more,  as  old-time  fellow-conspirators 
now,  and  between  these  imps  there  passed  a  significant 

"It  is  really  a  perfectly  fair  return,"  he  said.  "You 
cannot  deny  that  you  abducted  me  the  first  time — and, 
being  true  to  the  original  Eve,  you  will  not  attempt 
to  deny  it." 

"But  does  that  justify  you  in  abducting  me  now.?" 
"I  think  it  does.     It  is  only  fair  that  Adam  should 


230   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

tempt  the  woman  and  that  she  should  eat — "  with  a  ges 
ture  that  covered  the  crisp  club  sandwiches  at  that  mo- 
ment appearing  above  a  solicitous  waiter. 

"And  anyway,"  he  pursued,  watching  the  shining  tea 
service  being  spread  before  her,  "v^^atching  her  long,  deft 
hands  draw  cups  and  pot  toward  her — every  movement 
quick,  distinct,  purposeful,  shorn  of  all  needless  han- 
dlings and  bustlings,  as  clean-cut  as  her  incisive  brain — 
^^anyway — do  you  greatly  object  to  being  thus  stolen  and 
carried  off  from  town — on  such  a  day?"  His  eyes  led 
hers  to  the  freshly  green  lawn  and  the  restlessly  spar- 
kling river  spread  before  them.  Not  even  glass  interfered 
with  their  view;  the  cosy  table  stood  in  the  front  window 
of  this  old  colonial  residence  turned  restaurant,  and 
the  room  was  thrown  open  to  the  spring. 

Her  eyes  swept  the  river,  the  lawn,  the  trim  beds  of 
tulips,  the  stately  old  pillared  veranda,  and  returned 
to  the  peeping  lettuce  leaves  between  golden-brown  tri- 
angles of  toast. 

"Although  thirty-nine  and  a  cynic,"  said  she  demurely, 
"I  admit  the  charms  of  folly — on  such  a  day."  And 
unconsciously  Helen  Kent's  eyes  rested  on  the  fra- 
grant mass  of  purple  bloom  against  her  breast. 

"On  such  a  day,"  she  said  later  on,  while  pouring 
him  his  third  cup  of  tea  and  recalling  with  a  secret  smile 
his  former  distaste  for  that  beverage,  "I  am  tempted  to 
the  bucolic  life  and  commutation.  But  it  tired  my  nerves 
even  in  California — they  could  never  stand  it  in  New 
York." 

The  physician's  swift  scrutiny  raked  her.  "You  look 
as  if  the  foundation  were  firm.     If  the  nerves  tire,  it's 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN       231 

more  because  they  have  been  overstrained  than  through 
any  fundamental  weakness." 

"Yes.  They  went  through  a  good  deal — once  upon 
a  time.     But  that's   over." 

He  made  no  reply,  only  continuing  to  look  into  her 
with  that  wise  penetration  which  is  in  itself  sympathy, 
because  of  its  profound  understanding.  For  a  minute  her 
eyes  strayed  out  over  the  river,  to  the  dusky  beauty  of 
the  other  shore,  shadowed  against  a  western  sun;  then, 
astounding  herself,  she  turned  abruptly  to  him,  and  said : 

"I  went  through  a  prolonged  hell.  My  husband  gam- 
bled himself  into  poverty,  drank  himself  into  loathsome- 
ness, and  wound  up  by  offering  me  the  ultimate  insult. 
I  struck  out  with  the  baby.  I've  gone  it  alone  ever  since. 
He  died  a  few  years  ago.     That's  the  whole  story." 

Never  before  in  all  the  years  had  she  said  as  much 
to  any  save  those  persons  intimately  concerned  in  her 
affairs.  As  the  facts  fell  from  her,  stark  in  all  their 
brutality,  she  realised  this;  and  next  she  realised  the 
wonderful  perfectness  of  the  man's  silence.  Any  word — 
a  step  in  any  of  the  possible  directions,  toward  expres- 
sion of  pity,  or  surprise,  or  blame,  or  inquiry — ^would 
have  turned  her  confession  to  a  weakness  in  her  own 
eyes  and  have  moved  her  to  detest  herself  for  it.  But, 
instead,  he  was  stiU.  It  was  as  though  he  offered  her 
that  stillness  like  a  strong  arm.  .  .  . 

She  went  on.  "I  sometimes  think  it  was  better,  after 
all,  to  learn  the  truth  so  early — that  man,  as  a  husband, 
is  impossible — that  'love'  is  a  delusion,  and  that  mar- 
riage is  the  tragedy  of  woman's  life.  Most  girls  have 
to  conie  to  it  later — they  are  kept  longer  in  the  clouds, 


232   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

where  they  are  unable  to  see  anything  clearly.  It's  to 
spare  my  child  what  I  went  through — the  finding  out 
by  bitter  personal  experience — that  I've  brought  her  up 
to  know  facts  as  they  are.  I've  called  a  spade  a  spade 
to  her.  She  has  been  taught  to  realise  that  her  one 
chance  for  a  successful  life  is  to  avoid  the  romantic 
moonshine  known  as  'love.*  We're  going  to  live  an 
ideal  life  together,  free,  as  woman  should  always  be 
free." 

She  glanced  up  to  find  the  serious  grey  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  with  an  odd  look.  It  was  a  look  neither  of  approval 
nor  disapproval:  it  was  both  penetrating  and  kind,  al- 
most pitying.  The  thought  crossed  Helen's  mind  that 
it  was  the  look  of  a  physician  studying  sympatheti- 
cally a  grave  case.  And  still  he  maintained  that  still- 
ness, so  queerly  like  a  strong  arm.  .  .  . 

As  the  car  whirred  its  way  home  through  the  delicious 
chill  fragrance  of  late  afternoon,  "To  return  to  the 
subject  of  commuting,"  said  Dr.  Aspden.  "I  have 
never  fancied  that  daily  leap  for  life  myself.  But  I 
have  cherished  another  fancy.  It  is  to  possess  myself 
of  some  rambling,  homey  old  farmhouse,  far  from  the 
madding  crowd — quite  lost,  in  fact,  so  that  only  a  few 
intimate  friends  shall  know  its  whereabout — and  there 
make  unto  myself  a  dwelling  for  whatever  times  and 
seasons  the  whim  shall  prompt.  Run  out  to  it  for  a 
week-end  or  a  fortnight's  vacation,  or  desert  it  for  months 
at  a  time  if  I  please — but  always  know  it  is  there,  snug- 
gled in  some  valley,  and  awaiting  me." 

He  turned  to  her  just  then,  to  find  her  face  alight. 

"What  a  dream  of  bliss!     To  be  able  completely  to 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN      233 

*shake*  humanity,  at  such  times  as  it  becomes  insuffera- 
ble! To  commune  with  one's  percolator  and  one's  cigar- 
ette in  heavenly  solitude " 

"Exactly!"  His  own  enthusiasm  ignited  at  hers. 
"Spreading  rooms — the  house  touched  up  only  enough 
for  perfect  comfort,  nothing  done  to  spoil  its  mellow- 
ness, for  in  that  will  lie  much  of  its  healing  power — • 
easy  chairs,  of  course,  shaded  lamps,  books,  curtains, 
cushions " 

"And  a  dining  porch  thrown  out  to  the  east '* 

"Good!    What  sort  of  table  ware?" 

"Blue-and-white  Japanese.  It's  the  coolest  for  sum- 
mer breakfasts." 

"Blue-and-white  it  shall  be.  The  same  east  porch 
will  be  ready  for  loafing  on  hot  afternoons  and  evenings. 
A  Gloucester  hammock ^" 

"And  steamer  chairs." 

"With  cushions.  And  I  must  be  ready  for  cold  weather, 
too.  On  sharp  October  nights,  and  later,  when  the  leaves 
take  on  those  fine,  rich  browns  of  old  tapestries,  I  want 
to  be  able  to  draw  up  to  my  fire " 

"Before  a  huge  fireplace  built  of  the  native  stone " 

"With  Stevenson  or  Conrad  for  company ^" 

"Stop  thief!"  she  cried  at  that.  "For  it  is  nothing 
less  than  thieving  thus  to  rob  me  of  smug  comfort  in  my 
small  urban  apartment!"  The  car  was  drawing  up  at 
her  door. 

Alone,  Helen  entered  the  elevator  in  a  preoccupied 
sparkle.  Her  brilliant  eyes  were  seeing  a  long  way  off, 
apparently;  they  did  not  note  the  new  elevator  girl, 
the  maiden  in  high  French  heels  and  abbreviated  skirt. 


234   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

The  girl,  unacquainted  with  tenants,  continued  up- 
ward. 

"Floor?"  she  inquired  at  length,  having  reached  the 
top. 

Helen  roused.  "No,  no — the  fourth.^  At  her  own  door 
she  did  not  ring,  but  entered  with  her  latchkey.  Not  until 
she  had  walked  in  silence  the  length  of  the  hall  did 
she  see 

It  was  a  flash  of  rose  colour  that  recalled  her  to  her 
senses — Bee,  in  her  new  evening  gown,  the  pink  Georgette 
which  Helen  had  designed  with  such  pleasure — and  now, 
beyond  Bee,  she  saw  the  dining-room.  Its  table  was 
charmingly  spread — the  French  china,  the  cut  glass,  a 
favourite  drawn-work  centrepiece,  a  simple  cluster  of 
blush  roses 

"Helen!  Oh,  my  dear,  is  that  you?"  It  was  Bee 
crying  to  her,  sweeping  her  up  as  into  the  heart  of  her 
rose-like  self.  "I've  been  so  frightened,  dearest!  I  tele- 
phoned the  office,  and  they  said  you  had  left  long  before, 
and  Miss  Muldoon  was  gone,  and  nobody  knew  anything 
about  you.  I  couldn't  tell — I  imagined  things — you 
might  have  been  in  some  horrid  accident — I  was  sure 
you  would  always  call  me  up  if  you  were  detained  very 
late!  But  I  got  everything  ready.  It*s  time  for  then* 
now.     Is  the  table  all  right  ?" 

Helen's  voice  was  halting  somewhere  in  the  depths  of 
her  throat  and  refusing  to  produce  a  sound.  For  the 
first  time  she  remembered  that  a  party  of  old  friends 
from  California  were  to  be  her  guests  at  a  half -past-seven 
o'clock  dinner! 

"The  table  is   simply  charming,"  she  brought  forth 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN      235 

at  last,  conscious  of  a  remarkable  huskiness  in  her  strug- 
gling voice.  "And  you  were  an  angel  to  make  it  so. 
You're  perfect  yourself,  too,  dear.  I'm  so  sorry  you 
worried — I'll  explain  later.  I  must  leap  into  an  evening 
gown  now." 

Helen  rushed  to  her  room.  She  did  not  hear,  "Put 
the  big  yellow  rose  on  your  shoulder,  darling!"  She 
heard  only  the  confusion  of  her  own  brain-hammers 
pounding,  a  multitude  of  them,  in  her  ears. 

What  did  it  mean,  that  the  intoxication  of  this  spring 
weather  could  trick  her,  Helen  Kent,  into  such  childish 
folly — to  forget  the  passage  of  time,  and  a  social  obli- 
gation, like  some  heedless  schoolgirl?  She,  who  always 
held  social  obligations  card-indexed  and  filed  for  ready 
reference!  Could  she  be  ill?  Seriously,  was  some  fever 
brewing,  that  she  could  thus  be  driven  to  lose  her  rational 
efficiency,  her  commanding  poise?  What  would  Bee  say 
if  she  knew?  And  what  could  she  say  to  Bee,  when 
guests  were  gone  and  the  time  for  chatting  privately 
should  arrive? 

There !  A  snapper  spread,  and  refusing  to  snap !  How 
fingers  turned  to  thumbs  when  one  hurried ! The  door- 
bell! 

Could  she  tell  Bee,  indeed?  She  had  come  home  with 
the  impulse  to  pour  forth  laughingly  the  story  of  her 
jolly  ride  with  the  once-curt  bachelor.  But  how  explain 
her  oblivion 

Again  the  doorbell!  Would  that  slipper  never  go  on 
at  the  heel?     Where  was  the  shoe-horn.'' 

She  loathed  subterfuge.    Of  course  she  must  be  frank, 


236   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

must  tell  the  whole  story,  confess  her  shameful  forget- 
fulness 

The  last  snapper  was  fastened  now,  her  hand  was  on 
the  doorknob.  She  could  hear  Bee's  voice  in  charming 
welcome  to  Mrs.  Elmore. 

For  an  instant  Helen  paused  to  regain  breath  and 
emerge  unflurried.  And  in  that  instant  an  astonishing, 
irrelevant  thought  flashed  through  her  mind.  It  was  an 
impertinent  thought,  rudely  pushing  its  entrance  where 
it  was  not  invited.     The  thought  cried: 

"He  must  have  the  willow  furniture  stained  black  for 
the  big  living-room  with  the  fireplace,  and  get  cretonne 
of  a  deep,  dull  blue  combined  with  dahlia  reds.  I'll 
tell  him  to-morrow." 

She  snatched  open  the  door  and  went  forth,  quick,  vivid, 
definitely  silhouetted.  "I'm  so  sorry!"  she  cried,  both 
hands  out  to  them  all  with  a  dominating  cordiality  that 
commanded  forgiveness.  "That  I  should  have  been  un- 
avoidably detained  this  day  of  all  days!  Has  Bequita 
told  you  how  delighted  we  are,  and  how  we  have  looked 
forward  to  this  informal  little  gathering,  for  auld  lang 
syne.''" 


"Darling,  to  think  I've  got  you  again,  and  safe!" 
Bee  was  perched  on  the  arm  of  Helen's  chair;  her  hands 
drooped  against  Helen's  shining  hair,  her  olive-white 
neck ;  the  caress  was  like  that  of  a  lost  lover  restored. 
Whatever  resentments  had  been  breeding  during  recent 
weeks  were  dispelled  for  the  time,  at  least.    In  that  hour 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN      237 

of  Bee's  panic  at  Helen's  absence,  all  her  old  passionate 
devotion  had  surged  back  in  an  overpowering  tide. 

"I'm  so  sorry.  I  didn't  realise  that  you  would  worry  so. 
It  was  very  careless  of  me  not  to  telephone."  Helen 
halted.  Yes,  it  was  time  for  the  explanation.  The  guests 
were  gone.     "Very  careless,"  Helen  repeated. 

The  soft,  bare  arms,  still  thin  with  the  thinness  of 
youth,  clung  about  her  shoulders.  She  could  feel  the 
beat  of  that  young,  fragrant  breath  against  her  cheek. 
It  had  been  weeks,  weeks,  since  she  had  known  the  sharp 
sweetness  of  those  old,  impulsive  caresses.  She  had  not 
realised  how  she  was  suffering  from  their  absence;  but  to 
feel  them  again,  the  warmth  of  them,  the  deamess  of 
them 

Before  Helen  rose  a  picture  of  the  Bee  who,  on  one 
occasion,  had  gazed  at  her  with  the  coldness  of  a  critical 
maturity. 

"The  child  cannot  understand,"  she  thought.  "If  I 
tell  her,  she  will  again  place  some  absurd  misconstruc- 
tion upon  my  act.  Perhaps  she  is  jealous.  At  any  rate, 
it's  no  use.     Better  not  try  to  explain." 

"I  won't  be  so  careless  again,  dear.  I  had  to  go — 
that  is,  I  went — up  beyond  town,  and  I  took  time  to 
snatch  a  bite,  which  made  me  late " 

Like  wings  the  caresses  hovered  about  her  hair,  her 
neck.  Helen  closed  her  eyes,  drinking  in  their  delight. 
The  constrained  coldness  of  past  weeks  was  gone,  like 
the  bleakness  of  a  dreadful  winter;  here  beckoned  the 
seduction  of  an  exquisite  warmth.   .  .  . 

She  shook  herself  together.  She,  Helen  Kent,  to  pur- 
chase back  even  these  beloved  caresses  at  the  price  of 


238   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

a   weak   subterfuge,   a  silence   amounting  to   falsehood! 
Scorn  of  herself  made  her  voice  firm. 

"In  fact,"  she  stated,  "the  once-crusty  Dr.  Aspden 
asked  me  to  ride  this  afternoon,  and  we  had  tea  at  a 
restaurant  up  the  river.  That  was  how,"  Helen  per- 
sisted distinctly,  "I  came  to  be  delayed  beyond  my  time." 
And  she  sat  apparently  unmoved  as  the  arms  fell  from 
her  neck. 


VI 


As  Helen's  brief  explanation  unfolded,  Bee  had  felt 
as  though  a  hand  seized  her  throat.  Her  heart  seemed 
rending — she  felt  about  to  shriek,  and  she  felt  struck 
dumb,  both  at  once.  For  seconds  she  stood  in  locked 
silence ;  then,  with  a  rush  of  escape,  she  fled  to  her  roof. 

And  now  she  stood  there,  face  to  face  with  the  sky, 
and  she  cried  to  it.  No  voice  could  have  been  heard; 
her  words  did  not  rise  above  a  whisper;  and  yet  to  her 
they  were  cries  that  rent  the  darkness,  that  shrieked 
and  beat  with  their  wings  up  against  the  bars  of  the 
sky  above. 

"I  want  my  own!  I  have  a  right  to  it  now!  She  has 
forfeited  every  right  to  forbid  me !  She — who  does  as 
she  pleases,  preaches  one  thing  and  practises  another, 
who  forgets  every  responsibility  while  she  flirts  away  an 
afternoon,  who  tries  to  kill  my  happiness  while  she  looks 
out  for  her  own " 

Bitter  cries,  furious,  despairing,  they  stormed  forth 
in  the  night;  they  beat  themselves  to  exhaustion;  they 
fell  back  and  rose  again: 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN      239 

"I  am  going  to  have  it,  I  tell  you!"  •'You"  was 
perhaps  the  sky,  or  Helen.  "I'm  going  to  take  my 
happiness — it's  mine — I  have  a  right  to  it !  I  don't  care 
how,  clandestinely,  anj'  way.  She's  forfeited  all  right 
to  my  obedience.  I  told  him  good-bye  forever  the  other 
day;  but  now,  now — I'll  call  him  back!" 

There  in  the  starlight  her  cloak  floated  like  the  wings 
of  a  great  moth,  frostily  green,  fluttering,  opening,  hov- 
ering. Like  the  trapped  moth  that,  elementally  possess- 
ing the  pow^ers  from  which  man  has  educated  himself 
away,  summons  its  mate  over  a  score  of  miles  by  a  sound- 
less call  that  is  nothing  more  tangible  than  intense  long- 
ing projected 

"I'll  call  him  back!"  whispered  Bequita.     "But  how?" 

And  then,  suddenly,  Bequita  fell  upon  her  knees.  For 
the  second  time  in  her  life,  she  prayed. 

"O  God,  bring  him  to  me !  Bring  him  back !  He*s  the 
only  person  that  understands.  God — ^I  don't  know  who 
you  are,  and  of  course  I  don't  believe  in  you,  and  I 
know  that  you're  nothing  but  a  delusion  like  Santa  Claus, 
but  I  feel  you!  It — you — are  something  that  flows  all 
around  like  air,  and  it  goes  everywhere  all  at  once,  and 
so  it  must  reach  everybody,  as  if  everything  were  one, 
and  so  why  can't  it  go  to  him,  and  tell  him,  oh,  tell  him — • 
to  find  me!  Keep  her  from  separating  us  ever — ever 
again !" 

She  knelt,  not  knowing  why;  nor  why  her  arms  flung 
themselves  toward  the  sky  above.  She  was  merely  obeying 
instinct.  And  yet  that  untaught  instinct  had  already 
strangely  found  its  way  from  a  pleading  with  vague 
plural  gods,  like  those  of  the  barbarian,  to  a  crude  con- 


240   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

ception  of  Unity.  There  on  that  city  roof,  above  the 
head  of  Helen  Kent  who,  for  nineteen  years,  had  shielded 
her  daughter  from  every  outward  approach  of  danger- 
ous delusion,  that  daughter  knelt  before  a  Power  that 
approached  from  within. 

On  the  following  evening  she  arrived  to  find  a  dim 
figure  on  a  near-by  roof.  At  her  appearance,  it  crossed 
rapidly  over  the  two  intervening  roofs,  and  took  her  into 
its  arms. 

"I — ^I'U — ^be  able — to  talk — in  a  few  minutes,  Philip. 
The — the  reason  you — you  frightened  me  so,  was  that 
the  thing  I  expected  really  happened."  Her  words, 
naively  unconscious  of  their  world-weary  humour,  were 
panting  themselves  out  against  his  breast. 

"Then  you  knew  I  would,  must  come.''"  He  was  hold- 
ing her  from  him  now,  the  better  to  realise  her  actuality 
with  devouring  eyes. 

"I  called  you,"  Bee  said. 

And  to  her  it  was  always  to  remain  that  she  had  called 
him  and  he  had  answered,  despite  his  explanation  of 
his  mysterious   appearance. 

"The  day  after  seeing  you,  I  began  my  series  of  charges 
upon  innocent  housewives  throughout  this  vicinity.  I 
have  spent  all  my  available  time  since  in  scheming,  trick- 
ery, coercion,  assault  and  battery,  to  get  a  room  in 
some  apartment  beneath  one  of  the  contiguous  roofs; 
and  without  success  until  this  evening,  when  one  Mrs. 
Coon,  three  doors  away,  yielded  at  last  at  the  point 
of  the  bayonet  and  for  a  fabulous  sum  in  advance.  And 
all  this,  Bequita  miay  that  I  might  perhaps  only  once 
tread  this  sky  path  to  the  Lady  of  My  Thoughts  upon 


SPRING  LAYS  A  TRAP  FOR  HELEN      241 

Dreams,  once  see  her  among  her  flowers 
and  stars.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  summarily  dismissed.  My 
fate  lies  in  your  hands."  Again  he  drew  her  to  him, 
her  face  turned  up  to  his;  his  own  bent  nearer,  his  lips 
approaching. 

She  did  not  resist;  but  from  the  curious  miscellany  of 
conduct  rules  pathetically  gathered  here  and  there  and 
heaped  \sdthin  her  untaught  mind,  a  faint  protest  voiced 
itself. 

"But  people  don't — don't  kiss  each  other  until  they're 
engaged !" 

"Then  the  sooner  we  settle  the  preliminaries,  the  bet- 
ter!" 


PART   THREE 


CHAPTER  XIII 
BEC  ENTERS  A  STRANGE  GATE 


HEAVEN  and  hell  awaited  Bequita.  By  the 
same  gate  she  entered  them,  and  found  them 
one. 
It  was  heaven  always  at  the  trysting  hour.  When- 
ever that  might  be — in  the  late  afternoon,  when  the  full 
sun  beat  do^Ti  upon  her  little  awning,  and,  in  its  shade, 
a  cool  breeze  shook  loose  the  mignonette's  fragrance;  in 
the  early  evening,  when  the  gilded  red  sun,  like  some 
giant  Christmas  tree  ball,  plumped  itself  into  the  Pali- 
sades; later,  when  winky  stars  brightened  in  a  sky  that 
looked  like  Cousin  Ress's  sapphire-colored  velvet  gown — 
Bee  went  to  her  trysts  upon  the  Roof  o'  Dreams  with  a 
strange  new  light  in  her  eyes.  They  shone  blue  as  the 
heart  of  a  flame,  and  they  were  wide  with  the  abnormal 
calm  bom  of  excitement's  fever  heat.  She  perceived 
through  senses  that  were  given  a  new  awareness.  The 
feeble  but  lovely  scent  of  pansies;  the  blue  porcelain 
glaze  of  a  wind-burnished  sky;  the  gentle  melancholy  of 
the  far-ofF  tower  clock's  stroke,  reaching  her  now  and 
then  from  Madison  Square;  the  cool,  elastic  touch  of  the 
earth  in  her  flower-boxes — all  these  perceptions  and  a 

245 


246   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

thousand  more,  long  familiar,  became  suddenly  keen,  as 
if  heretofore  her  senses  had  been  asleep  to  the  delights 
that  lay  open  to  them. 

At  whatever  time  her  "slip-away"  chance  offered,  she 
would  go  to  meet  her  lover.  There  under  the  little  canopy 
he  would  come  to  her,  and  all  heaven  would  open  wide 
and  dazzle  her  with  its  splendour  and  drug  her  with  its 
rapture. 

And  then — a  talk,  a  walk  if  possible — the  meeting 
would  be  over,  and  she  would  part  from  Philip  dreamy, 
under  the  anesthetic  of  ecstasy.  She  would  return  to  her 
normal  routine — study,  dinner,  chat  with  Helen,  shop- 
ping, a  party,  perhaps — in  this  half -dazed  condition. 
Gradually  the  anesthetic  would  wear  off,  and  in  its  place 
would  come  the  inevitable  depression,  the  nightmare 
hours  that  were  her  hell. 

There  were  various  chambers  in  this  infernal  abode. 
In  one,  hopelessness  hung  like  grey  curtains  and  there 
was  no  other  furnishing. 

Another  chamber  was  possessed  by  fear.  In  this,  un- 
reasonable panic  would  seize  her — ^terror  of  losing  her 
lover,  morbid  anxiety  lest  some  misunderstood  word  of 
her  own  should  turn  him  from  her.  Had  he  thought  her 
cold  at  parting?  She  had  said  a  curt  "good-bye"  and 
had  run  without  a  backward  glance — perhaps  he  had 
thought  her  angry  over  their  difference  concerning  free 
verse,  whereas  of  course  she  wasn't,  but  what  if  he  should 
fail  to  come  the  next  evening  because  of  her  curtness? 
Should  she  write  and  explain?  No,  that  wouldn't  do. 
But  if  he  should  never  come  again.  .  .  .  And  so  on, 
overwrought  to  an  almost  neurotic  condition,  she  would 


BEC  ENTERS  A  STRANGE  GATE        247 

be  distorting  the  situation  all  the  evening  in  her  mind, 
while  holding  an  unseen  book  before  her  eyes. 

Or,  fear  would  clutch  at  some  careless  phrase  of 
Philip*s,  and  spend  hours  in  futile  twistings  and  turnings 
of  it.  What  had  he  meant  by  saying,  "There  is  a  certain 
quality  in  first  love  that  can  never  be  found  again?" 
Had  he  loved  previously?  Until  three  or  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning  she  might  lie  torturing  herself  with  such 
frights. 

In  still  another  chamber,  remorse  brooded;  here,  most 
dreadful  sight  of  all,  her  eyes  fell  upon  herself.  Was 
it  she,  indeed,  Rebequita  Kent,  who  was  living  this  life 
of  vile  duplicity,  of  sinister  evasions  as  bad  as  direct 
lies,  of  clandestine  meetings,  of  reckless  disobedience? 
Rather,  it  must  be  some  base  creature,  deaf  to  any  voice 
but  that  of  her  own  driven  desire.  Some  girl  that  had 
never  been  taught.  Some  girl  devoid  of  honour.  A  being 
despicable,  low,  unashamed.  At  such  moments  she  stood 
off  and  looked  upon  her  actions  in  horrified  detachment, 
as  though  they  were  no  more  real  than  a  delirium  through 
which  she  had  passed,  like  the  queer  things  she  had 
dreamed  of  doing  during  scarlet  fever,  years  before. 

Still  she  saw  through  a  glass,  darkly;  still  she  groped 
in  that  half-light  of  childhood  where  obedience  to 
parental  rulership  stands  for  conscience,  where  the  soul 
has  not  yet  seen  face  to  face.  One  mind  within  her  was 
seeking  the  truth;  but  her  other  mind  still  clung  to  the 
habit  of  discriminating  between  right  and  wrong  on  a 
basis  of  Helen's  approval  or  disapproval. 

And  the  constant  fear  of  detection,  the  starting  at  a 
sound,  flushing  at  some  ambiguous  remark  of  Helenas, 


248   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

guessing  at  what  reservations  lay  behind  some  silence  of 
hers!  Either  Helen  was  inexplicably  blind  during  these 
days,  or  she  had  her  reasons  for  saying  nothing,  Bee 
often  thought.  This,  her  own  cowering,  was  to  her  the 
vilest  of  all. 

There  would  be  hours  of  these  churning  reflections, 
then  a  sudden,  heavy  sleep  of  exhaustion — a  weary  drag- 
ging back  to  consciousness — a  forenoon  of  clogged  brain 
— a  sloth  gradually  wearing  off  as  excitement  returned 
with  the  appi'oaching  hour.  .  .  . 

And  the  Hoof  o'  Dreams  kept  its  own  counsel. 


Each  tryst  brought  its  new  delight.  Once,  for  in- 
stance, it  was  Philip's  idea  to  inspect  the  morning  world 
from  their  eyrie.    They  met  before  Helen  was  even  awake. 

"I'm  glad  you  made  me  come  for  this !"  Bee's  glance 
and  gesture  swept  the  sun-shot  river,  the  clean  morning 
green  of  the  Jersey  shore,  the  streets  below,  all  dapper  in 
the  untarnished  freshness  of  the  new  day.  "I  might  have 
gone  on  forever  and  never  have  known  what  it  looks  like 
before  people  take  hold  of  the  day  and  handle  it,  and  it 
gets  mussed." 

He  laughed — that  was  the  way  the  adorableness  of 
her  affected  him,  he  always  told  her,  it  made  him  want 
to  laugh  out  of  sheer  delight  merely  because  of  the  won- 
derful fact  that  she  was  she. 

"Not  a  thing  out  of  order  yet.  Even  the  fussy  little 
tugs  and  the  clumsy  barges  are  almost  pretty  at  this 
hour,"  she  went  on,  perching  herself  with  a  spring  that 


BEC  ENTERS  A  STRANGE  GATE         249 

was  hardly  more  than  a  flutter  upon  the  parapet.  He 
offered  a  hand  in  vain. 

"Thanks,  but  I'm  not  the  sort  of  girl  one  need  offer 
a  hand  to,  because,  you  see,  when  I  pick  the  place  I  want 
to  go,  I  f>y  to  it." 

"Fairy  style,  of  course.  And  whither,  O  more  than 
mortal  being,  do  you  propose  flight  this  afternoon?  It's 
mine  off." 

"But  Saturday  is — is  not  free  for  me."  What  Bee 
really  meant  was  that  this  was  Helen's  afternoon  at 
home;  but  so  acute  was  her  sensitiveness  concerning  the 
whole  situation,  that  she  rarely  spoke  frankly  of  its 
duplicities. 

"Isn't  there  any  way?" 

Bee  pondered.  "I  can't  say  now.  But  I'll  leave  a 
note  with  Toby  at  noon." 

Yes,  there  was  a  postoffice:  a  ravishing  toy,  the  droll- 
est old  Toby  that  Philip  counted  one  of  his  priceless 
treasures.  Nothing  less  would  be  worthy  the  sacred 
trust,  he  had  said.  They  had  buried  it  in  a  comer  of 
one  of  the  flower-boxes,  covered  it  with  a  veil  of  ivy; 
they  spoke  of  Toby  as  their  postmaster,  and  entrusted  to 
his  pottery  protection  from  wind,  moisture,  prying  and 
theft,  their  daily  correspondence.  What  secrets  did  the 
genial  old  wiseacre  tuck  away  beneath  the  sturdy  breast 
of  that  ancient  blue  coat! 

And  Philip,  home  at  one-thirty  that  day,  slipped  up 
to  his  own  roof,  quickly  crossed  that  of  the  intervening 
house,  and  on  the  Roof  o'  Dreams,  stooped  and  drew  from 
Toby's  hold  the  promised  scribble. 

"Can  come  after  two  o'clock."     The  note  did  not  add 


250   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

the  information  which  had  been  imparted  to  Bee  over  the 
telephone:  that  Helen  was  to  drive  with  Dr.  Aspden  that 
afternoon,  and  would  not  be  at  home  until  dinner  time. 
Bee  had  hung  up  the  receiver  with  eyes  angrily  brilUant, 
lips  a  hard  line.  These  drives  were  becoming  frequent, 
as  were  the  Doctor's  calls  at  the  little  apartment ;  he  had 
plainly  made  an  effort  to  win  Bee's  liking  from  the  first, 
but  in  vain.     She  viewed  him  with  thinly  veiled  hostility. 

This  afternoon's  freedom  meant,  for  Bee  and  Philip, 
some  uncommon  adventure,  what  was  known  as  a  "very 
special"  journey.  The  journeys  were  few,  usually  brief, 
but  always  unforgettable.  They  were  as  wide  as  the 
world  and  as  long  as  eternity,  or  so  they  seemed,  until 
suddenly  the  stroke  of  the  clock  would  end  that  seeming. 
To  avenge  themselves  they  made  verses  at  it : 

"Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  tower. 
Always  harping  on  the  hour! 
Up  above  the  world  so  high, 
BattiHg  now  and  then  an  eye!" 

They  might  wander  for  a  priceless  half-hour  among 
those  hilly  paths  of  Riverside  Park,  where  dirty  babies 
toddle  among  clean  babies ;  where  shrubs  and  trees  and 
grass  and  flowers  play  at  bringing  the  country  to  city 
folk;  where  the  river,  in  sphinx-like  silence,  observes  the 
loves  of  this  year  as  it  has  observed  them  for  several 
centuries  along  the  same  banks,  even  from  the  days  when 
some  Hiawatha  wooed  his  Minnehaha  in  their  shade — 
and  with  the  same  bored  increduhty  in  its  impassive  grey 
gaze. 

Once  they  re-trod  the  old  Central  Park  path,  charged 
already  with  memory;  so  short  a  space  on  the  calendar 


BEC  ENTERS  A  STRANGE  GATE        251 

of  lovers  does  it  take  to  hang  the  hushing  sign,  "For  Old 
Times'  Sake"  before  a  gateway ! 

"Tliink  of  it,  Bequita — ^we  might  have  spent  thirty, 
maybe  forty-five  minutes  more  of  our  lives  together  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  those  bushes  that  hid  you  from  me!" 

At  times  they  fell  sober.  Bee  was  nowada^^s  becom- 
ing obsessed  with  curiosity  concerning  "that  thing  some 
people  call  God."  She  had  questioned  various  persons, 
from  Russian  Anna  to  the  Obelisk,  concerning  their  atti- 
tude ;  but  with  Philip  she  hesitated,  because  of  their  very 
closeness  of  spirit.     The  question  urged,  however. 

"Philip,  of  course  you  don't  believe  in  what  people 
call  God?'' 

He,  too,  hesitated.    At  last  he  said: 

"I  was  in  France." 

He  hesitated  again.  Then,  "Before  that,  I  didn't 
think  about  such  things — I  didn't  exactly  disbelieve,  but 
I  didn't  bother  about  them.  But  in  France — ^well,  a  man 
didn't  have  much  if  he  didn't  have  some  kind  of — well, 
Something  to  hang  on  to," 

.  .  .  Always  they  found  the  breath  of  spring  and  the 
soul  of  the  open  in  the  heart  of  our  densest  city. 
Whether  on  tlie  Roof  o'  Dreams,  or  in  one  of  the  thronged 
parks,  the  city  became  lyric  at  their  touch.  Especially 
they  liked  little  Morningside  Park,  that  glowing  treasure 
tossed  into  the  lap  of  a  crowded  upto^vn,  comparatively 
unsought  by  the  multitude,  content  to  lie  in  the  sun  and 
fling  back  its  light  joyously  from  green  facets.  It  was 
there  they  discovered  the  Wisliing  Stone. 

Fortunately,  they  found  it  on  the  long  afternoon  above 
mentioned.     It  was  Bee  saw  it  first :     "This  shall  be  our 


252   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Wishing  Stone!"  she  cried,  and  ran  toward  a  boulder 
that  humped  itself  in  the  midst  of  the  green,  and  sat 
upon  it,  and  closed  her  eyes  for  better  seeing. 

"I  wish — "  her  roaming  ideas  began,  "I  wish " 

"Be  careful!"  Philip  warned.  "For  it's  sure  to  come 
true,  you  know,  uttered  on  a  Wishing  Stone."  At  that 
moment,  he  could  easily  have  believed  it.  Looking  at 
Bee  on  a  day  like  this,  he  told  himself,  one  could  believe 
anything.  It  was  a  day  when  the  heavy,  sweet  fatigue 
of  spring  merges  into  summer.  Beside  the  winding  walk 
pink  blossoming  shrubs  stood  up  stiffly  like  quaint  bou- 
quets, and  starry  yellow  blooms  lay  scattered  on  the 
path.  He  had  swayed  with  a  strap  in  the  hot  elevated 
train  shortly  before;  he  had  observed  women  leaning 
from  windows  as  if  stifled  forth  from  their  tenements; 
but  here,  in  this  green  strip  overbosomed  by  motherly 
old  rocks.  Bee  wrought  for  him  all  the  magic  of  spring. 

"The  trouble  is,  I  can't  put  my  wish  into  words.  It's 
so  big  it  hasn't  any  outline.  It  seems  to  be  something 
like  sailing  away  and  away " 

"I  don't  know  anything  to  offer  but  an  ocean  voyage. 
Will  you  take  one  with  me?" 

"The  very  thing!" 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "We  can  just  make  it,  to 
secure  passports  and  get  aboard,"  he  reported,  with  a 
business-like  air  of  competent  seriousness.  Twenty 
minutes  later,  when  he  led  her,  panting,  wondering, 
sparkling,  guessing,  upon  an  excursion  boat  at  its  uptown 
landing,  he  drew  a  long  breath  of  satisfaction  and  ob- 
served : 

"So  the  Wishing  Stone  functions," 


BEC  ENTERS  A  STRANGE  GATE        253 

"Perfectly !  And  now  we  have  nothing  to  do  but  think 
up  wishes,  and  run  down  to  Momingside,  and  sit  on  the 
Stone,  and — presto  !" 

"Presto!"  he  echoed,  with  a  gesture  of  happy  finality, 
and  they  sought  deck  seats  to  watch  for  foreign  lands. 

When,  at  the  boat's  Battery  landing,  they  disembarked, 
it  was  to  exclaim  at  the  marvels  of  an  unknown  city  in 
a  strange  country. 

"How  tall  the  buildings  are !  The  natives  must  always 
be  striving  to  climb  on  top  of  one  another,"  ran  her 
make-believe  observation,  and: 

"Don't  you  notice  that  over-eating  must  prevail  among 
the  inhabitants.''"  he  inquired,  as  they  chanced  to  pass 
three  fat  men  and  one  super-fat  woman  in  succession. 

"Horrors !  You  don't  suppose  we've  landed  on  a  can- 
nibal island  by  mistake?" 

So,  laughing,  nonsense-ing,  they  caught  a  subway  ex- 
press back  uptown,  and  planned  another  voyage  of 
marvels  for  the  next  opportunity^  Thus  did  make-believe 
strangely   blend   with   the   deepest   realities   of   life. 


rn 


For  the  realities  were  ever-present.  Bee,  perplexed 
and  inexperienced,  tried  to  push  them  from  her  mind. 
Philip,  wiser  than  his  years,  wanted  them  faced  down. 

"It  can't  go  on  this  way.  Bee.  If  we  had  been  per- 
mitted to  see  each  other  normally,  I  shouldn't  have  talked 
of  marriage  for  many  a  long  day  yet,  till  I  could  offer 
you  the  right  sort  of  home.  But  you're  not  happy  as  it 
is.     Wouldn't  you  rather  make  the  break?     And  let  us 


254   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

work  up  together.  We've  a  sense  of  humour,  which  solves 
most  difficulties,  and  gives  flavour  to  a  diet  of  bread, 
cheese  and  kisses." 

Always  at  these  urgings  she  turned  to  him  a  longing, 
pitiful  face. 

"You  know  I'd  rather,  Philip !" 

"Then  let  us,  at  once !" 

But  always  debate  came  to  the  same  end.  "No,  no, 
we  can't!     She  would  never  consent." 

"Let  me  go  to  her  openly,  and  have  it  out  with  her!" 

"No,  no — never !  You  don't  know  her !"  Overwrought, 
Bee  would  fall  into  panic  at  the  thought  of  disclosure  to 
Helen,  who  hovered  like  a  Nemesis  nowadays  in  her 
daughter's  imagination.  "She  would  separate  us  forever 
if  she  knew !" 

"Well,  then,  there^s  the  other  way — take  it  on  our- 
selves, go  ahead  on  our  own  responsibility.  You  say  it 
is  what  she  did." 

But  at  this  proposal  Bee's  panic  would  only  increase. 
Somehow,  she  could  not  tell  how,  but  somehow  the  Nemesis 
would  follow. 


IV 


On  a  day  when  they  could  both  steal  an  hour  at  noon, 
Philip  kept  his  promise  to  introduce  Bee  to  the  Popp 
family,  who  lived  on  the  East  Side  uptown. 

"It's  like  calling  at  the  home  of  one's  fairy  godfather," 
she  declared.  "To  be  sure,  he  failed  in  his  efforts  to 
bring  us  together,  but  he  meant  to  godfather  us.  And 
perhaps  his  wish  had  something  to  do  with  its  coming 


BEC  ENTERS  A  STRANGE  GATE        255 

true,  after  all.  Do  you  know,"  she  meditated  aloud,  "I 
believe  that  every  wish  pushes  in  the  direction  it  wants 
to  go — gives  either  a  little  push  or  a  big  shove,  according 
to  how  hard  it  is." 

The  delicate  mysticism  of  her  nature  always  found  a 
response,  though  usually  a  silent  one,  in  him.  He  never 
laughed  at  these  fancies,  if  fancies  they  were.  And  that, 
Bee  told  herself,  was  a  part  of  his  being  he. 

They  found  the  crowded  nest  of  Popps  in  a  clamour 
of  young  chirpings  and  older  twitterings.  They  were 
welcomed  almost  to  suffocation. 

"How  fortunate  that  you  had  such  a  bad  attack  of 
rheumatism  to-day,  Mr.  Popp,"  Bee  rejoiced,  "because 
otherwise  I  might  never  have  met  you." 

Mr.  Popp  bowed  magnificently,  scorning  the  twinges 
that  such  ceremony  cost  him. 

"This  hour,  Miss,  is  one  of  the  memorable  hours  of 
my  life.  Never  did  I  think  that  such  a  reunion  as  this 
would  take  place.  I  done  my  effort,  that  was  all.  I 
knowed  that  if  I  could  but  bring  two  young  and  beat- 
ing hearts  together,  it  was  mine  to  do.  Little  did  I 
dream,"  rolled  on  the  eloquence  of  Mr.  Popp,  "of  ever 
seeing  them  young  hearts  again.  Instead  of  which,  I  owe 
to  Mr.  Oliver  here  all " 

Philip  interrupted.  "Miss  Kent  is  very  anxious  to 
see  the  photograph  of  you  and  Mrs.  Popp  as  bride  and 
bridegroom,"  he  declared,  whereupon  Mrs.  Popp  bustled 
forward,  beaming,  and  the  topic  was  shifted.  Twice 
later,  Bee  observed,  did  Philip  break  up  the  conversation 
in  similar  fashion. 

It  was  very  hard  to  leave.  Bee  found.     She  lingered 


256   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

longest  over  the  tiniest  bird  in  the  nest;  it  whacked  its 
fists  about  without  aim,  and  said  "goo-goo"  as  though 
"goo-goo''  were  really  an  important  statement. 

"I  wish  I  could  take  it  along,"  she  said  to  Philip,  who 
was  holding  open  the  door  for  her. 

He  looked  at  her  with  one  of  his  long,  still  looks, 
as  if  something  had  stirred  deep  wells  and  left  him  in- 
articulate. And  the  same  thought  came  to  each,  although 
he  did  not  know  that  the  night  before  Bee  had  dreamed 
of  a  baby  that  nestled  squirmily  in  her  lap,  curling  its 
pink  toes  into  droll  little  fists. 

Not  until  the  following  week  did  she  understand 
Philip's  curious  interruptions  of  Mr.  Popp's  discourse. 
Then,  slipping  over  to  the  East  Side  home  one  afternoon 
all  by  herself  and  unknown  to  him,  she  descended  upon 
the  chirping  nest  with  a  basketful  of  toys  and  candy,  a 
wonderful  Santa  Claus  pack,  bought  with  the  hoarded 
allowance. 

"I  couldn't  wait  till  Christmas,"  she  explained,  passing 
out  tidbits  to  the  deafening  chorus  of  cheeps.  "It's  more 
than  half  a  year  away." 

"I  do  declare,  you'n  him's  just  alike  in  the  goodness 
of  your  blessed  young  hearts !"  cried  Grandmother  Popp, 
and  forthwith  proceeded  to  recount  the  way  "that  grand 
young  gentleman  kept  us  all  from  being  dispossessed 
last  winter  when  Pa  couldn't  work  and  we  thought  the  end 
had  came,  and  if  he  didn't  send  around  dinners,  and 
pay  the  rent,  and  he  won't  let  Pa  pay  back  a  cent  till 
he's  well  enough  to  work  reg'lar." 

And  Mr.  Popp  himself,  returning  at  that  momeaU 
joined  in  the  praises  of  the  grand  young  gentleman. 


BEC  ENTERS  A  STRANGE  GATE        257 

"And,  Miss,  if  there's  ever  a  wa}^  I  can  serve  you,  re- 
member the  word  of  John  Jenkins  Popp,"  he  offered 
solemnly,  and  Bee  pledged  herself  to  remember  his  pledge. 
Neither  guessed  how  soon  it  might  he  ratified. 

As  she  was  saying  good-bye,  the  queer  obsession  seized 
her  even  here — the  insatiable  desire  to  know  what  ever}^- 
one  thought  concerning  her  newly  awakened  questionings. 

"Mr.  Popp,  excuse  me  for  seeming  personal,"  she 
apologised,  "but  would  you  object  to  telling  me  whether 
you  believe  in  what  they  call  God?  I'm  sure  you  are  a 
profound  thinker.'* 

"In  God,  Miss?"  His  eyes  rounded  in  surprise.  "And 
why  wouldn't  I,  seein'  what  your  grand  young  gentleman 
done  for  our  family  when  we  was  at  the  limit?"  With 
which  simple  logic,  Mr.  Popp  covered  ground  upon  which 
philosophers  have  squandered  volumes. 

"Thank  you,"  Bee  replied*  "I'm  glad  of  your  opinion, 
at  any  rate.     Good-bye !"  she  cried  to  all  the  nest. 

Thinking  of  the  revelations  concerning  "the  grand 
young  gentleman,"  Bee  went  away  with  a  feeling  of  some- 
thing newly  warm  deep  in  her  heart.  Heretofore  she  had 
known  Philip  as  he  was  to  her;  now  she  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  other  side,  in  contact  with  an  outer  world. 


In  reality,  the  hours  given  to  these  lovers'  meetings 
would  have  totalled  a  pauper's  allowance.  Rarely  twenty- 
four  hours  passed,  to  be  sure,  without  a  moment's 
glimpse  together  of  the  Roof  o'  Dreams;  either  in  the 
early  morning,  or  late  afternoon,  or  at  night,  when  Bee 


258   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

would  flit  up  to  her  flowers  like  a  great  moth  on  frosty- 
green  wings ;  but  often  the  meeting  was  one  with  the  part- 
ing. All  told,  a  record  of  their  excursions  would 
not  have  covered  the  fingers  of  her  hands.  But  the 
impression  of  each  was  so  vivid  that  Bee  could  live  on  It 
for  days  together,  storing  every  word,  every  minutest 
incident,  for  her  hours  alone.  The  fact  that  so  much 
of  the  lovers'  communion  never  passed  beyond  her  world 
of  dreams,  explains  to  some  extent  Helen's  surprising 
blindness.  Moreover,  that  dominant  person's  conviction 
of  her  own  mastery  helped  account  for  it.  She  took  for 
granted,  largely,  that  her  child  could  not  disobey.  But, 
nevertheless,  Helen  Kent's  perceptions  were  far  too  keen 
to  escape  the  sense  of  events  in  the  air,  had  her  own 
mind  not  been  extraordinarily  preoccupied  during  these 
days — ^more  and  more  preoccupied  with  every  day  that 
passed — ^by  a  new  element  in  her  life,  which  was  closing 
her  eyes  as  effectually  as  a  new  element  in  Bee's  was 
opening  hers.  Were  the  emotions  roused  in  the  two  women 
essentially  different?  one  might  have  wondered.  Or  does 
the  same  emotion  produce  blindness  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  forty,  that  at  twenty  makes  for  clear-seeing? 

Summer  entered,  and  Bee's  schooldays  came  to  an  end. 
She  had  more  than  "passed,"  her  examinations  having 
borne  fruit  in  marks  little  short  of  perfection,  those 
marks  having  ripened  under  the  most  rigid  scrutiny  of 
the  terrible  Obelisk.  Helen  shone  jettily  in  complacent 
pride,  and  gave  her  young  graduate  a  box  party  at  the 
most  charming  musical  comedy  in  town,  with  a  restaurant 
supper  following.  Both  the  lobster  a  la  Newburg  and 
the  parfait  were  heavenly,  the  graduate  declared,  roused 


BEC  ENTERS  A  STRANGE  GATE        259 

to  her  old-time  sparkle  for  once;  indeed,  she  showed  such 
a  wealth  of  Bec-ishness,  that  one  of  the  youths,  a  ro- 
mantic aviator,  fell  hopelessly  a-mooning.  Helen  ob- 
served him  with  the  lazy  glint  of  luxurious  amusement. 
Her  property  was  safe  from  the  air-raids  of  those  eyes ! 

"Now  for  a  long  summer's  rest,"  Helen  said  that  night 
in  the  confidence  of  the  bedtime  hour.  "We  shall  spend 
July  in  the  mountains,  and  you  shan't  begin  the  new 
work  until  autumn.  Then  for  the  great  career!  Then 
begins  the  famous  partnership  for  fortune!  Miss  and 
Mrs.  Croesus — here's  to  them!" 

And  even  while  Helen  raised  her  midnight  coffee-cup 
with  a  gesture  that  claimed  the  future  for  her  own,  her 
daughter  was  inwardly  revolving  the  problem  which  had 
been  growing  more  and  more  pressing  of  late :  how  was  the 
great  debut  to  be  accomplished?     For: 

"There's  no  use  my  giving  you  any  more  lessons," 
Zelie  had  said.  "You're  more  than  ready.  But  how 
the  dev — I  mean,  how  on  the  green  apple  we're  going  to 
find  a  chance  for  you  to  star  in  a  performance  of  the 
highest  order  and  in  the  most  exclusive  sassiety,  is  more 
than  I  know.  Fair  one,  we've  put  in  a  pretty  large 
order." 

"Yes,  it's  almost  the  impossible."  But  Bee  had  nodded 
with  an  odd  show  of  optimism. 

"You  said  it." 

"And  yet  I'm  certain  it's  going  to  come  true.  Because 
we're  wishing  it  so  hard.  I'm  sort  of  calling  for  it, 
inside  me,  all  the  time.  I'm  finding  out  queer  things," 
she  had  gone  on  sagely.  "There's  a  way  to  make  things 
come  true.     I  seem  able  to  catch  the  way  at  times,  but 


260   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

then  I  lose  it  again.  But  I've  found  out  this:  there's 
a  way  to  wish  a  thing,  very,  very  hard,  as  though  you 
were  telling  someone — not  somecmey  either,  but  some 
great,  floating  power — all  about  your  need,  and  explain- 
ing very  clearly  why  you  need  it;  and  then  forgetting 
all  about  it,  as  though  you  had  written  a  letter  and  sealed 
and  posted  it  and  sent  it  off  to  its  destination,  and  all 
you  had  to  do  was  to  wait  for  the  answer.  Oh,  I  can't 
explain  it !"  she  had  cried,  "but  I  can  feel  it !" 

Thus  Bequita  groped.  It  was  as  though,  thirsting  in 
darkness,  she  fumbled  over  the  face  of  unseen  rocks  and 
now  and  then  caught  the  plash  of  the  crystal  cascade 
upon  them,  and  touched  her  lips  to  it  and  was  revived. 
But  only  for  instants;  no  light  as  yet  shed  its  ray  to 
guide  her  steadfastly. 

Zelie,  in  meditative  amusement,  had  gently  pulled  the 
tail  of  Villageoise. 

"The  funniest  kiddie  yet,  isn't  she,  Vill?'* 

But  Bee  had  not  heeded.  She  had  pushed  on.  *'Zelie, 
do  you  believe  in  anything — I  mean  anything  like  what 
some  people  call  God?" 

Zelie  had  fallen  silent,  continuing  to  annoy  Villageoise. 
''Considering  the  way  I  was  brought  up,"  she  had  ob- 
served at  length,  "in  everything  from  a  gypsy  camp  to 
the  family  end  of  a  saloon,  it  can't  be  called  surprising 
that  I  never  folded  my  little  hands  in  prayer  in  the  infant 
class  of  Sunday-school."     She  had  mused  again. 

"And  from  what  I've  seen  of  this  world  for  twenty- 
five  years,  I  can't  say  I'm  particularly  stuck  on  the  idea 
of  a  world-to-come-life-everlasting.     I  guess  I'll  have  had 


BEC  ENTERS  A  STRANGE  GATE         261 

enough  of  living  by  the  time  I'm  through  with  three- 
score-years-and-ten  of  the  job."     Again  musing — 

"I  suppose  what  I  believe  comes  to  about  this,"  she 
had  concluded.  "That  there's  Some  Reason  for  being 
square." 

**S-s-s-s!"  hissed  Villageoise.  There  is  a  limit  to  the 
long-suffering  of  even  the  most  patient  of  tails. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL 


BEC'S  brain-racking  on  the  subject  of  the  debut 
led  her  by  devious  ways  to  the  one  person  besides 
Zelie  who  had  shown  a  critical  and  detached  in- 
terest in  her  dancing:  McNab.  He  had  seen  and  been 
impressed  by  it;  he  was  a  practical  and  influential  man 
of  aif  airs ;  might  he  not  ^elp  her  art  to  find  a  way  out  ? 
She  had  never  met  him  since  his  one  call  at  the  apart- 
ment, but  surely  he  would  remember.  .  .  .  With  a  sudden 
access  of  desperate  courage,  she  dashed  one  morning  to 
the  telephone. 

She  had  grasped  the  receiver  when  a  horrid  wobbliness 
came  over  her,  purpose  and  all,  and  she  fled  to  her  room. 
She  was  all  at  once  very  much  scared  of  what  she  had 
intended  to  do.  The  busy,  important  Mr.  McNab?  Of 
course  he  would  not  remember  her!  And  even  if  he 
should,  how  it  would  annoy  him  to  be  interrupted ! 

The  telephone  bell  rang.  Someone  wanting  Helen, 
no  doubt.  Bee  returned  to  the  hall  and  pleasantly  in- 
quired "Hello?"  welcoming  the  distraction. 

"What  number  did  you  want?"  It  was  the  hall-girl. 
Her  instant's  hold  of  the  receiver  had  registered,  after 

262 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  263 

all.  Her  reply  was  surprised  from  her,  and  before  she 
knew  it  she  had  said  "St.  Paul  3000,"  and  then  was 
left  staring  at  that  small  apparatus  of  metal,  gutta 
percha  and  green  cord  as  though  it  were  a  dragon. 

But  she  had  said  it,  she  must  go  ahead  now.  "Num- 
ber?" the  operator  was  chirping,  and  she  heard  the 
repetition — ^it  was  swift,  like  being  passed  along  from 
room  to  room  and  having  no  power  to  escape  the  final 
tribunal.  .  .  . 

"Monroe  Mutual,'*  came  with  crisp  finality. 

"Surely  he  won't  be  in  his  office,"  Bee's  hope  now 
murmured  to  her.  "Helen  says  it's  almost  impossible  to 
catch  him " 

**Monroe  Mutiud,'' 

"Is— is  Mr.  Charles  Mack  McNab  in?'*  Why  hadn't 
she  hung  up,  and  ended  it  all?  Her  original  purpose 
was  functioning  like  a  mechanism  which,  having  once 
been  started,  she  was  powerless  to  check.  Instants  more 
— ^purrings,  clickings 

"Hello,  hello!"  pounced  at  her. 

"Is— is  Mr.  NcNab— in?'* 

"You're  talking  to  him  right  now."  There  it  was — no 
escape.     Meet  it,  meet  it  square  in  the  face! 

"I'm— I'm  Bee,"  she  panted. 

"Who?     Didn't  catch  it." 

"B-Bec.  Rebequita  Kent.  Mrs.  Kent's  daughter. 
You  met  me  at  my  mother's.  I  suppose  you've  forgotten' 
— I  know  you're  so  busy.  I  danced  a  daffodil  for 
you " 

"Oh,  say,  I  get  you  now !  Miss — ^Miss — sure,  I  remem- 
ber!"    His  voice  was  cordial,  but  it  was  odd,  his  not 


264»   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

repeating  her  name.  Had  he  really  forgotten  her? 
Helen  was  always  talking  about  the  preoccupied  New 
York  business  man  who  had  no  time  for  "outside"  mat- 
ters.    And  how  "outside"  a  matter  was  she,  indeed ! 

'*I — I'm  afraid  I  ought  not  to  have  bothered  you,"  she 
murmured  miserably. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  What  can  I  do  for  you?"  Then 
his  voice  turned  aside  and  said  to  someone,  "Just  be  look- 
ing over  that  report,  won't  you,  and  we'll  take  it  up  in  a 
minute."  He  was  engaged,  then,  and  no  doubt  impatient. 
Oh,  why  had  she  ever 

"It's  only — only  about  a  little  matter  of  my  own,  and 
I'm  sorry  I  took  up  your  time,  and  please  never  mind !  I 
thought  if  I  could  have  a  little  talk  with  you  about  my 
dancing — ^but  please  don't  think  of  it  again.  I  know  how 
busy  you  are!" 

"Hold  on — ^wait  a  second.  I  could  meet  you  at — let 
me  see " 

Now  that  she  had  gone  so  far,  she  rallied  her  pride; 
it  would  be  less  weak-minded  to  see  the  thing  through, 
much  as  she  regretted  her  act.  She  would  be  very  busi- 
ness-like and  hasten  the  interview. 

"I  thought  of — the  Public  Library,"  she  ventured. 
"There's  a  marble  bench  in  the  north  corridor."  Once 
she  had  seen  a  couple  meet  at  this  marble  bench  and  sit 
upon  it  to  confer.    The  aspect  had  been  eminently  proper. 

"The — what?  Oh,  say,  wouldn't  that  chill  you,  eh, 
what?"  He  was  taking  a  moment  to  think.  Then  it 
came: 

"Be  at  Westbridge's  at  one-fifteen,"  he  said  with  quiet 
definiteness.     *'Good-bye." 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  265 

It  was  a  restaurant !  He  was  taking  her  to  lunch ! 
But  one  mustn't  go  to  lunch  unchaperoned  with  a  man 
one  knew  but  slightly !  And  in  secret  at  that !  It  was 
impossible!  But  this  was  the  situation.  The  appoint- 
ment was  made ;  he  had  rung  off,  mthout  waiting  for  her 
reply.  Yes,  this  was  the  situation,  and  Bee  sank  into 
a  chair,  her  face  flaming  with  the  conflagration  of  knowl' 
edge  that  she  had  brought  it  upon  herself. 

To  be  sure,  she  had  never  dreamed  of  a  lunch  with 
Mr.  McNab.  So  clearly  had  she  visualised  the  chaste 
corridors  of  the  Public  Library,  the  icy  sedateness  of 
that  marble  bench,  that  possibilities  of  this  kind  had 
never  entered  her  head.  But  she  had  opened  the  way 
to  this  invitation,  she  had  been  wholly  to  blame.  And 
now — what  was  she  to  do  about  it?  Should  she  call 
up  again,  and  make  excuses?  But  that  would  be  con- 
temptibly silly!  She  could  see  Helen  shut  her  lips  in  a 
tight  line  and  say,  "You  let  yourself  in  for  the  thing. 
You've  got  to  go  through  with  it."  Even  Helen  would 
Say  that,  scorning. 

The  clock — ^half-past  twelve  already!  And  she  must 
dress  from  pumps  up.  Yes,  the  only  thing  to  do  was 
to  go  promptly,  be  very  business-like,  and  close  the  inter- 
view as  speedily  as  possible.  Business-like — that  must 
be  the  keynote.     Very,  very  business-like.  .  .  . 

"The  white  linen  blouse  looks  most  so."  She  ran  over 
the   row  of  lifeless   forms   hanging   from   sachet-padded 

stretchers  in  her  w^ardrobe.    "The  white  linen.    But " 

She  hesitated.     Eve  throbbed  within  her  breast. 

"But  the  flesh-coloured  crepe-de-Chine  is  more  suitable 
for  a  smart  restaurant." 


266   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Again  she  hesitated.  Again  Eve,  the  woman  within 
her,  claiming  her  dower  of  loveliness,  throbbed  and  cried 
out  softly.  From  among  the  lifeless  forms  of  silk,  linen 
and  cotton  she  took  down  the  pale  rosy  crepe,  and  a 
minute  later  it  was  endowed  with  breath.  Into  its  arms 
she  infused  her  own  free-stretching  movements,  movements 
that  seemed  to  seek  and  reach  toward  life;  its  numb 
bosom  was  no  longer  numb,  it  beat  to  her  own  pulse.  It 
warmed,  it  stirred,  it  took  on  exquisite  form.  Its  tint 
responded  to  the  delicate  warmth  of  the  cheeks  above 
it,  emphasised  the  faint  honey-colour  of  the  throat  upon 
which  it  parted  in  a  deep  point. 

"I'm — ^very  nice,"  Bequita  commented  humbly,  and  her 
mirror  gave  silent  acclamation. 


n 


**Good  for  you!  On  the  dot  of  one-fifteen.  Little 
sport,  all  right,  aren't  you.'"' 

McNab  had  met  her  with  a  vigorous  handshake,  had 
quickly  steered  her  to  a  quiet  table,  past  a  gauntlet  of 
eyes,  and  now  he  was  settling  down  opposite  with  a  long 
smile  of  satisfaction.  If  her  interruption  had  annoyed 
him  this  forenoon,  he  certainly  seemed  far  from  annoyed 
now !  She  breathed  deep  at  last.  A  soft  burst  of  chords 
rose  from  a  little  jungle  of  palms,  caught  up  the  last 
vestige  of  her  fear,  flung  it  away,  laughing  after  it. 

She  pulled  off  her  gloves,  and  gave  a  light  toss  as  if 
some  harness  were  removed,  shaking  her  shoulders  free. 
Her  eyes  took  in  the  luxury  of  palms,  glittering  tables, 
deft  waiters,  sophisticated  costumes. 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  267 

"It's  heavenly!" 

"Glad  jou  think  so." 

"I  really  do.  Helen  says  it's  silly  to  call  things 
heavenly,  but  sometimes  they  simply  are !" 

"If  you  say  so,  heavenly  they  are.  You're  right  every 
time  when  I'm  the  judge!" 

Bee  drew  back  almost  imperceptibly.  Again  she  was 
not  quite  at  ease. 

The  waiter  approached. 

"What's  the  good  word?"  McNab  inquired.  "Dry 
Martini?  Bronx?  That's  about  right,  strikes  me. 
Orange  gives  a  ladylike,  dressy  touch." 

"Oh,  not  any — ^not  any  kind !"  she  protested  hurriedly. 
"Just  lunch,  please.  We  must  get  to  business,  so  as  not 
to  detain  you.  I  never  drink  cocktails — that  is,  I  never 
did  biit  once,  ,and  it  made  me  feel  awfully  twinkly." 

But  in  spite  of  her  protests,  McNab  had  aready  given 
the  order,  and  now  he  laughed  in  a  delighted,  leisurely 
way,  and  leaned  forward  slightly  across  the  table. 

"'Awfully  twinkly'  would  suit  to  a  T.  Twinkle, 
twinkle,  little  star,  twinkle  right  here  where  you  are." 

She  drew  back  perceptibly  now,  and  he  seemed  not 
obtuse  to  the  movement.  He  became  at  once  brisk  and 
to  the  point. 

"Now  what  shall  we  have?  Iced  consomme?  You 
must  be  warm  after  hurrying  all  the  way  from  uptown. 
Sorry  to  ask  you  to  come  so  far,  but  my  time  was  cut 
out  for  me." 

"Oh,  I'm  the  one  to  feel  sorry,"  she  insisted,  reassured. 
*'I  was  so  ashamed  after  I'd — ^well,  roped  you  in." 

"Never  mind,  so  long  as  the  victim  enjoys  his  lasso." 


268   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Now  that  smile  was  all  right — ^it  was  friendly  and 
fraternal,  and  made  her  feel  comfortable. 

"I'm  afraid  I  sounded  pretty  short,"  he  went  on,  as  they 
sipped  the  cocktails.  "But  when  you  called  up — well, 
what  do  you  suppose  the  situation  was?" 

"I  can't  guess!"  Already  the  sensation  of  twinkliness 
was  beginning;  she  felt  more  interested  in  everything,  less 
self-conscious  and  afraid. 

"You  see,  I  got  the  idea  right  away  that  this  little 
matter  was — ^well,  between  us  two." 

She  nodded. 

"And  while  we  were  talking  about  this  appointment^ 
who  should  be  seated  at  my  elbow  but  your  charming 
mother !" 

"Oh,  she  didn't— did  she?— hear " 

"Not  a  word.  I  caught  on  in  time  to  keep  from  re- 
peating your  name.  Have  one" — ^lie  passed  her  a  de- 
lightful nest  of  a  basket  in  which  snuggled  a  whole  litter 
of  rolls,  no  two  alike — "and  now  let's  hear  about  Cali- 
fornia. I  never  had  time  to  get  away  from  Broadway 
long  enough  to  see  it." 

The  twinkly  sensation  was  making  her  very  comfort- 
able now,  it  seemed  easier  than  usual  to  talk,  and  she 
had  a  consciousness  that  she  was  being  interesting.  Soon 
her  tales  of  California  were  in  full  swing — how  she  had 
dived  into  the  Pacific  after  a  goldfish  as  big  as  a  mackerel 
when  she  w^s  not  much  bigger  herself,  thinking  that  she 
could  pick  up  the  fish  like  a  kitten,  and  how  she  was 
nearly  drowned  .  .  .  how  she  had  often  gone  camping 
in  the  redwoods  with  other  girls,  wood-nymphs  in  serge 
bloomers,  who  slew  their  own  bear  once  on  a  time.  .  .  , 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  269 

*'Gosh,"  he  muttered,  half  aloud,  "that's  the  life!  I'd 
like  to  get  away  from  Broadway  long  enough  to  be  human 
for  awhile — camp  out,  swim,  fish,  play  and  sleep  after- 
wards, instead  of  play  when  you  ought  to  be  asleep.  .  .  . 
It's  clean,  that  is.  .  .  ." 

Bee  heard  him  muttering  to  his  own  thoughts,  but  did 
not  heed,  for  a  sudden  anxiety  had  seized  her.  Here  they 
were  at  the  dessert,  and  the  business  of  the  occasion  had 
not  yet  come  up.  How  broach  the  subject?  He  was 
bolting  his  ice — ^he  must  be  in  a-  hurry  to  get  off.  The 
interview  would  soon  be  over,  and  in  vain.  .  .  . 

His  ice  was  gone.  He  fumbled  in  a  pocket.  With  a 
sudden  movement  of  relaxation  he  settled  back,  opening 
his  cigarette  case. 

"And  now,"  said  McNab,  "we're  ready  for  the  con- 
ference. Just  what  is  it  you  have  to  tell  me  about  your 
dancing.^    How  can  I  help?" 

And  in  that  moment's  rush  of  reassurance,  the  glow 
of  hope  reborn,  Bee  learned  for  all  time  the  lesson  that 
every  woman  learns  sooner  or  later — to  trust  all,  biding 
at  peace,  to  the  striking  of  the  match. 


in 


"Then  the  proposition  is  this,"  he  summed  up,  as,  at 
the  end  of  her  eager  narrative,  she  came  to  a  breathless 
halt.  "What  you  want  is  to  chuck  the  typewriter  for 
good — trip  forth,  light  fantastic  and  all  that ^" 

He  was  regarding  her  with  a  smoky  gaze.  It  seemed 
to  be  endless,  this  far-away  and  yet  rery-much-there  look. 
Under  the  length  of  it  her  eyes  fell  at  last.  .  .  . 


270   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"Cat  has  to  be  away  now  and  then — ^business  demands 
absence — one  mouse  calls  another  on  the  'phone — other 
mouse  says  *Come  on  and  play!'  Where's  the  harm?" 
Apropos  of  nothing,  apparently,  he  was  murmuring  on. 
"Say — great  idea  that — I  like  the  picture  of  me  as  a 
mouse  at  play." 

He  leaned  across  the  table.  Her  eyes  rose  with  a 
start. 

"Say,  Miss  Bee,  look  here.  I  liked  you  a  lot  from 
the  first  minute  when  you  danced  that  daffodil  thing, 
though  I  haven't  shown  it  by  calling — ^busy  man,  and  all 
that.     But  why  can't " 

"Oh,  I'm  always  busy,  too!"  she  broke  in.  The  com- 
fortable twinkliness  had  gone,  she  was  conscious  of 
acute  nervousness,  and  the  wish  that  she  could  somehow 
push  his  eyes  away.  Dimly,  she  was  aware  of  something 
crucial  in  the  moment.  Her  poise  quivered,  righted  it- 
self  

"Mr.  McNab,"  she  went  on,  "it  was  what  you  said  of 
my  gift  that  really  gave  me  my  start.  From  that  day 
I  resolved  some  time  to  carry  out  my  wish."  She  met 
his  eyes  safely,  with  sincerity  in  her  own;  the  moment 
was  past. 

He  looked  at  her  still,  but  differently.  The  smoky 
look  somehow  faded  out.  And  she  had  a  conviction  that 
what  he  said  in  the  end  was  not  at  all  what  he  had  in- 
tended to  say  in  the  beginning. 

"Do  you  know.  Miss  Bee,  there's  something  about  you 
that  makes  a  man  want  the  decent  things.  Would — would 
you  mind  if  I  dropped  around  sometimes,  at  the  apart- 
ment.?" 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  271 

And  at  this,  very  unskilfully  but  very  honestly,  Bee 
said: 

/"I  should  like  to  see  you  often,  Mr.  McNab.  You  are 
so  kind  and  I  like  you  so  much.  But  I'd  rather  you 
knew  that — that — I  belong.'* 

And  McNab  tightened  his  lips  with  a  sudden  indrawing 
of  breath,  reddened,  tensed;  then,  his  fat  little  immacu- 
late hand  out  : 

"You're  all  right.  Miss  Bee!  And  good  fortune  to 
you — and  to  him,  the  lucky  dog !  S'pose  you're  not — ^not 
announcing  it  yet?" 

"No.  No  one  knows."  At  that  moment  she  met  a 
thing  in  his  gaze  that  she  had  always  wanted.  It  had 
something  to  do  with  brothers,  she  fancied. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you  his  name.  It  is  Philip  Rodney 
Oliver.    He  is  an  architect." 

"What!  Phil  Oliver?"  broke  from  McNab.  "Why,  I 
knew  that  chap  in  France — ^haven't  seen  him  since,  but 
I'll  never  forget  that  night.  .  .  .  He  made  a  swim  under 
fire,  to  rescue  a  wounded  man — gosh,  but  I  never  saw 
anything  to  beat  it  while  I  was  over  there.  And  he'd 
had  the  reputation  of  being  a  bit  slow  on  the  job — not 
that  he  failed  anywhere,  but  he  had  a  lazy  way  of  laugh- 
ing at  the  others  when  they  roared  about  capturing  the 
Kaiser's  whole  army,  and  all  that.  And  then,  when  his 
chance  came" — McNab  paused  and  shook  his  head  as 
if  to  express  the  unutterable — "well,  he  showed  'era,  be- 
lieve me" 

The  little  man  fumbled  for  one  of  the  immaculate  and 
high-priced  handkerchiefs  which  he  always  produced  in 
foldings  unbroken,  and  mopped  a  warm  brow. 


272   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"If  it's  Oliver's  won  you,  I  say  he's  the  chap  to  deserve 
his  luck,  that's  all.  .  .  .  I'll  put  you  into  a  taxi,  if  you'll 
forgive  my  hurrying  to  an  engagement.  And  I'U  be 
thinking  About  a  chance  for  your  dancing — if  there's  any- 
thing I  can  do,  you  can  sure  count  on  me !" 

He  had  helped  her  into  the  cab  when  she  delayed  him. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  excuse  my  hindering  you — ^but  I 
want  so  much  to  ask — do  you  think  there's  anything  in 
the  idea — the  thing,  whatever  it  is — that  people  call 
God?  You're  a  practical  business  man,  I  thought  you 
might  know." 

McNab  stopped  with  a  jerk  of  surprise,  then  he 
laughed. 

"Afraid  I'm  a  poor  adviser  on  that  matter.  Miss  Bee. 
I've  always  said  that  most  people  don't  believe  it,  but 
they  aren't  quite  sure  enough  it's  a  fake  to  be  as  bad  as 
they'd  like  to  be.  .  .  .  You'U  hear  from  me  if  anything 
turns  up.    Good  luck !" 

As  she  rode  home  Bee  thought  it  all  over,  and  recalled 
the  way  the  smokiness  had  risen  in  McNab's  eyes,  and  the 
way  it  had  faded,  and  she  knew  intuitively  that  she  would 
never  see  it  there  again. 


IV 


Adventure  had  come  to  fill  Bequita's  world.  Where 
the  temporal  ended  the  spiritual  began. 

What  were  churches  like,  after  all?  she  found  herself 
wondering,  and  one  Sunday  while  Helen  was  driving  she 
slipped  off  to  the  one  nearest  at  hand,  and  tucked  herself 
away  in  an  obscure  comer. 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  273 

Something  welled  up  in  her  at  the  music — she  could 
feel  it  in  her  throat — ^but  all  the  welling  died  down  at  the 
sermon.  It  was  about  money.  The  congregation  were 
not  giving  enough,  they  came  and  took  home  food,  food 
for  the  soul,  a  hungry-looking  man  told  them,  and 
failed  to  pay  for  the  food.  How  was  this  church  to 
continue?  How  was  this  edifice  of  worship  to  be  sup- 
ported? The  preacher  seemed  to  grow  thinner  and 
sharper  as  he  said  "edifice  of  worship,"  and  he  sounded 
like  the  Obelisk  when  she  found  that  the  whole  class  had 
flunked  in  compound  interest. 

And  the  prayers  mourned  in  Bee's  ears.  "Oh  Lord, 
have  mercy!"  they  besought,  as  if  the  people  were  being 
punished  and  were  begging  that  the  lashing  be  stopped. 
She  was  horribly  mortified  when  the  plate  was  passed, 
for  she  had  not  brought  her  purse,  never  thinking  of  a 
collection — ^but  afterwards  she  consoled  herself  with 
realising  that  she  had  not  received  any  spiritual  food,  so 
that  she  didn't  really  owe  anything. 

But  whenever  the  music  rose  again  that  choky,  wonder- 
ful, hurty  feeling  of  joy  welled  up  in  her.  If  only 
worship  were  all  music  ...  it  was  the  music  that  brought 
the  Thing  nearer;  that  scolding  sermon,  those  mourning 
prayers  only  drove  It  off.  .  .  . 

On  her  Roof  o'  Dreams  she  pondered  over  all  the 
opinions  that  she  had  been  gathering,  sorting  them,  peer- 
ing into  them,  piecing  together  broken  bits,  guessing  at 
what  lay  behind  them. 

Zelie  didn't  seem  to  have  much  use  for  creeds,  but  she 
had  half  confessed  to  a  sense  of  Something — the  same 
Thing,  Bee  supposed,  that  she  herself  felt  so  curiously 


274   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

in  the  air.  And  Mr.  McNab's  attitude  seemed  very  much 
the  same. 

And  Mr.  Popp — "Why  wouldn't  I  believe  in  God, 
seein'  what  your  grand  young  gentleman  done  for  our 
family  when  we  was  at  the  limit?"  It  was  as  simple  and 
sincere  as  the  statement  of  a  child  who  believes  in  Santa 
Claus  because  his  stocking  is  filled.  After  all,  why  wasn't 
that  a  perfectly  good  reason.?  To  be  sure,  there  was  no 
more  a  great  ruler  sitting  on  a  throne  and  wearing  a  beard 
than  there  was  a  fat  little  Saint  driving  reindeer,  but  why 
might  there  not  be  a  sort  of  force,  this  queer  Thing  that 
she  felt,  moving  people  to  act  as  agents,  either  to  fill 
stockings  or  to  rescue  the  Popps? 

It  turned  out  that  everyone  she  had  questioned,  no 
matter  how  little  they  followed  the  rule  of  churches,  had 
owned,  after  a  fashion,  to  a  belief  in  Something.  Cousin 
Ress  wouldn't  talk  about  it  because  she  had  promised 
Helen,  but  Bee  knew  very  well  that  she  did  believe,  al- 
though she  always  motored  all  Sunday  and  said  iliat 
church  played  the  devil  with  her  neuritis.  .  .  .  Little  Aya 
and  her  Buddha.  .  .  .  The  Obelisk  and  Russian  Anna 
were  both  punctilious  church-goers,  therefore  Bee  gave 
less  heed  to  their  opinion,  for  she  suspected  that  it  had 
been  accepted  by  them  like  a  hand-me-down  coat  without 
scrutiny  of  the  fit.  But  when  people  had  looked  at  the 
Thing  with  a  sceptical  eye,  and  even  so  were  partly  con- 
vinced. .  .  .  Philip — even  Philip,  who  hated  talking 
about  it — he  was  very  gruff  and  growly  about  it,  and  yet 
he  admitted  that  in  France,  at  least,  he  had  found  Some- 
thing. .  .  . 

That  was  the  amazing  thing  to  Bee,  in  the  face  of  all 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  275 

that  Helen  had  taught  her:  the  discovery  that  all  sorts 
of  people,  in  diverse  walks,  people  taught  and  untaught, 
reverent  and  irreverent,  some  far  from  pious,  very 
worldly,  in  fact,  possibly  rather  naughty — people  who 
made  fun  of  you  at  first  when  you  wanted  to  talk  about  it 
seriously — ^nevertheless,  in  the  end,  if  you  pinned  them 
down  tight,  admitted  at  least  a  suspicion  that  there  was 
Something.  They  didn't,  in  short,  feel  ready  to  accept 
Helen's  theory  that  we  are  no  more  than  miserable 
mechanical  toys,  "wound  up  like  the  cocks  that  the 
venders  show  on  Forty-Second  Street,  to  fight  each  other 
until  the  machinery  runs  down  or  goes  to  smash." 

And  now,  in  so  sweeping  a  review  of  her  universe  that 
she  felt  like  the  Locksley  Hall  gentleman.  Bee  fell  to 
wondering  whether  Helen's  professors  in  that  great,  far- 
visioned  western  university  had  ever  taught  or  thought 
what  Helen  believed?  She  had  always  been  quoting  them 
— "survival  of  the  fittest" — "ignorance  of  the  law  excuses 
no  one" — phrases  that  sounded  cruel  enough — ^but 
didn't  the  cruelty  lie  in  Helen's  perversion  of  their  true 
meaning?  Bee  had  listened  to  these  same  professors  now 
and  then  in  her  childhood ;  words  that  had  passed  over  her 
head  at  the  time  returned  to  her  with  the  noblest  signifi- 
cance. 

"The  law  of  survival  of  the  fittest  is  never  to  be  read 
in  a  crude  and  physical,  nor  even  in  a  cold-bloodedly  in- 
tellectual sense.  Only  in  the  subtlest  ethical  meaning 
does  its  truth  lie.  The  fittest  are,  indeed,  the  conquerors 
of  the  earth ;  but  their  fitness  is  that  of  right,  not  might.'* 

One  of  the  professors  had  said  that. 

No,  it  was  not  the  university  that  had  been  responsible 


276   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

for  Helen  Clifton's  doctrines.  It  was  something  inside 
Helen  herself.  How  Bee  wished  that  she  might  return 
now,  grown-up  to  understand,  and  find  help  in  that 
great,  free  institution  which  had  so  bravely  shaken  itself 
loose  from  dogma  more  than  a  quarter-century  ago.  ,  .  . 
More  and  more  she  was  coming  to  puzzle  over  Helen's 
point  of  view.  .  .  . 

In  her  new  spirit  of  zeal  Bee  visited  several  churches 
of  various  denominations ;  but  although  some  of  the 
preachers  were  agreeable,  and  some  of  the  prayers  im- 
pressive, she  never  found  what  she  sought.  One  day  it 
dawned  upon  her 

"They  all  treat  the  Thing  like  an  outsider.  They 
talk  about  Him,  or  pray  at  Him,  as  if  he  were  somewhere 
up  above  all  the  time,  instead  of  a  great  air  floating  all 
around  them — more  than  that — something  inside  them- 
selves." 

She  was  fumbling — getting  closer — almost  she  had 
it 

"More  than  inside  themselves — ^why  isn't  it  themselves? 
Why  isn't  God  all  of  us?  What  if  He  is?  What  if  He 
is  what  does  the  things  we  do — the  best  things?  When 
I  dance,  what  if  it  is  God  dances?  The  Obelisk  would 
call  that  frightfully  irreverent.  But  suppose  it  was 
really  He  writing  plays  when  they  called  it  Shakespeare, 
and  travelling  to  America  when  they  called  it  Columbus 
— ^moving,  acting,  doing  things  to  make  the  world  grow, 
all  the  time,  through  all  of  us,  as  though  we  were 
fingers.  .  .  . 

**If  that  could  be  true,  then  what  we  pray  to  would 
be  Ourselves.  .  .  ." 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  277 

V 

Bee  was  to  see  an  instance  of  that  obscure  law  which, 
once  you  start  cause  moving  in  one  channel,  brings  about 
effect  in  a  channel  wholly  different.  She  had  rolled  up 
her  sleeves,  so  to  speak,  when  she  had  sought  McNab's 
influence;  and  now  not  that  gentleman,  but  Zelie,  was 
to  prove  the  agent  of  her  directed  energy. 

"Well,  my  child,  something's  doing  at  last." 

Bee  arrived  at  the  studio  on  a  rainy  June  day  to  find 
Zelie,  who  had  summoned  her,  pacing  the  floor  with  long 
sinuous  strides  that  made  no  more  sound  than  do  the 
strides  of  one  of  her  feline  relatives  over  a  bed  of  forest 
leaves.  Something  was  worrying  her,  Bee  was  sure;  but 
Miss  Barrajas  refused  to  admit  it.  "Never  felt  more 
cheerful.    Why  shouldn't  I  ?    I've  landed  your  G.  O. !" 

"I  always  knew  it  would  come!"  Bee  breathed.  She 
caught  the  other  in  a  smothering  embrace.  But,  to  her 
surprise,  Zelie  drew  back. 

"Sit  down,  kid,"  she  instructed  bluntly.  "I  haven't 
time  to  spare  for  any  ecstasies." 

It  was  astounding,  that  touch  of  cynicism,  almost 
bitterness,  in  Zelie's  manner.  How  could  she  not  burst 
into  ecstasy,  after  all  their  hoping  and  striving? 

"Now  then,"  Zelie  went  on  with  business-like  curtness. 
"You're  going  to  Manito  Summit  Park  for  your  out- 
ing?" 

"Yes.  It's  settled."  In  the  sadly  degenerate  Catskills 
a  few  lovely  refuges  still  remain,  and  Helen  had  chosen 
one  of  the  most  delightful  of  these. 

"O.      K.     Dovetails     exactly.     Now     for     it.      The 


278   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

high-mucky-mucks  of  Eagle's  Eyrie  Park,  a  few  miles 
beyond,  are  getting  up  a  sort  of  pageant — soTne  class, 
believe  me!  So  se-lect  that  none  of  the  Great  Majority 
could  get  an  eyelash  through  the  gates.  But  money — 
why,  kid,  it's  to  flow  like  champagne  the  last  night  before 
the  Drys  take  over  the  earth!  They've  got  Edmun3 
Lyall  Van  Buren  to  design  the  whole  thing,  costumes  and 
all — the  artist  that's  doing  'em  for  all  the  new  plays. 
He's  making  the  paintings   for  it  now.     What  do   you 

knbw  about  that?    And " 

"But — ^but  what "  Bee  panted,  fumbling  for  the 

connection  between  this  event  and  her  own  fortune,  too 
incredulous  to  dare  see 


*'You'll  learn  in  time,  my  child."  Zelie's  haste  seemed 
to  have  passed.  "To  resume:  this  show  is  to  represent 
some  American  Indian  legends.  Very  appropriate  and 
all  that,  in  the  wilds  of  nature  et  cetera.  And  the  piece 
de  resistance"^ — ^Zelie  paused  impressively,  and  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  Bee's — "is  to  be — "  she  went  on  with  torment- 
ing deliberateness,  as  though  dangling  a  tidbit  just  beyond 
the  reach  of  a  famished  victim — "is  to  be  the  scene  where 
the  White  Maiden,  a  Spirit  of  the  Waterfall,  appears 
to  the  Indians  who  are  dying  of  thirst,  and  leads  them 
to  the  cascade.  She  flits  up  to  them  through  the  woods, 
then  comes  to  the  edge  of  the  gone-dry  waterfall,  and 
there  she  dances — dances,  mind  you — oh,  hey  tiddlety, 
tiddlety  tee! — a  dance  that  represents  the  bubbling, 
leaping  cascade — do  you  get  me?  And  that  dance  is 
expected  to  be  some  punkins!  The  Indians  sit  around 
gaping,  audience  ditto.  Everybody  spellbound.  At  the 
end,  as  the  sun  sets,  she  smites  the  rock — bing! — and  the 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  279 

waterfall  gushes  forth — ^whish! — then  she  waves — ta-ta! 
and  vanishes." 

To  an  imagination  like  Bee's  the  picture,  even  through 
the  medium  of  Zelie's  slang,  was  vivid  as  light.  Zelie 
paused  to  meet  her  dead  silence.  Bee  could  hear  her  own 
heart  like  a  clock  ticking  in  the  night.  Could  it  be  that 
— no,  no,  she  mustn't  believe — and  yet 

"You  can't  mean  that — that — 0  Zelie,  don't  tor- 
ment me !     Who — is  to  be  the — White  Maiden .?" 

For  answer  Zelie  picked  up  a  hand  mirror  and  held 
it  before  Bee's  blazing  eyes. 

Bee  saw  in  it  a  face  pale  with  excitement;  eyes  that 
burned  more  black  than  blue  in  their  fever;  lips  a  livid 
coral;  a  mass  of  foaming  gold  hair  escaping  under  the 
broad  straw  hat.  Bequita  Kent  would  have  fallen  far 
short  of  intelligent  womanhood  had  she  not  recognised 
the  fact  that,  for  all  the  faulty  features,  here  was  beauty 
— the  sort  that  burns  its  way  from  within,  and  flames  in 
the  outward  expression  of  face,  in  the  arresting  grace 
of  every  posture. 

She  covered  the  face,  bowed  it,  in  a  sudden  overwhelm- 
ing humility. 

"It's  all  too  wonderful!     But  what  if  I  should  fail?" 

"Rats !  Buck  up,  my  fair  one.  You  won't  do  a  thing 
to  that  dance!" 

"But,  Zelie,  why  not  you?"  came  the  next  amendment. 
"It's  so  generous  of  you,  but  you're  waiting  for  your 
G.  O.  as  well  as  I !" 

Again  that  shade  of  bitterness  surprised  Bee.  But 
Zelie  replied  briefly,  "A  nice  White  Spirit  I'd  make, 
wouldn't  I?     No,  lamb,  the  tiger-cat  is  my  style.     Now 


280   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

then,  I  suppose  you  want  a  few  items.  The  long  and 
the  short  of  it,  then,  is  that  some  of  the  bunch  happened 
to — well,  to  ask  me  to  recommend  someone  for  the  said 
White  Spirit.  I  saw  it  would  work  out  A  number  one 
for  you,  with  you  staying  near  enough  to  slip  over  on 
the  quiet  for  rehearsals.  We'll  talk  about  the  details 
later.  All  that's  needed  now  is  your  official  acceptance. 
Do  I  convey  it.  Mademoiselle  la  Premiere?'* 

"Zelie!  The  idea  of  asking!  And  that  you  should 
contrive  all  this  for  me,  to  make  my  dream  come  true! 
O  my  dear,  how  I  hope  that  your  own  G.  O.  will  come 
running  after  it !" 

The  reply  was  a  trifle  snorty. 

"Now  beat  it — skiddoo !  I've  got  to  go  and  meet  the 
committee,  to   give  *em  your  answer." 

But,  left  alone  with  Villageoise,  Miss  Barrajas  sank 
into  one  of  the  baronial  chairs,  and  for  long  minutes 
she  did  not  stir. 

"Well — my  G.  O.  waves  to  me  and  flits,"  she  sighed 
at  last,  rising  heavily.  "That's  all  right.  She  has 
everything  ahead,  and  she  deserves  it.  As  for  you  and 
me,  Vill,  we  might  lose  our  heads  with  too  much  pros- 
perity. You  might  take  to  champagne  instead  of  cream, 
if  you  could  get  it,  and  I  might  acquire  the  vicious  habit 
of  cutting  my  old  friends  of  Bittersweet  Alley." 

She  rose  with  extreme  lassitude,  put  on  her  turban 
at  a  recklessly  don't-care  angle,  picked  up  two  unmated 
gloves,  and  prepared  to  set  out. 

"She'll  never  guess  the  truth — don't  worry.  Every- 
body that  might  let  it  out  is  going  to  be  pledged  not  to. 
Otherwise,  she'd  break  her  little  generous  heart.     So^ — 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  281 

it's  all  right  all  Vound.  And  if  you  ever  catch  me  being 
sorr}'^  I  did  it.,  just  kindly  claw  my  eyes  out,  will  you, 
Madame  Cat?     So  long!" 


VI 


Turbulent  with  the  great  news,  Bee  sped  home.  And 
here  she  was  at  her  own  door,  in  a  turmoil  of  excite- 
ment; how  should  she  crush  it  down,  drive  it  from  her 
eyes,  her  cheeks,  her  voice,  her  panting  breath?  She 
must  not  rouse  a  flicker  of  suspicion  in  Helen.  What 
a  campaign,  indeed,  lay  ahead — all  the  preparation  for 
this  marvellous  debut,  without  once  giving  the  secret 
away!  Impossible,  and  yet  not  impossible,  because  what 
must  be  done  could  be.  And  when  the  great  triumph 
was  won,  Helen  would  be  convinced  at  last — how  she 
would  shine  with  pride 

So,  her  thoughts  tumbling  in  exultant  confusion,  Bee 
entered  the   apartment.      Helen  was   out. 

Bee  learned  this  with  a  sense  of  relief,  for  now  she 
would  have  time  to  cool  the  fever  of  her  excitement.  She 
entered  her  own  room.  On  a  chair,  neatly  set  forth,  lay 
one  of  her  party  gowns,  and  the  sash  and  slippers  and 
stockings  that  she  wore  with  it,  and  a  wreath  of  tiny 
ribbon  buds  to  trail  over  her  shoulder.  Until  then  she 
had  forgotten  the  dinner-dance  at  Adelaide  Matcham's. 

Helen  had  put  everything  in  exquisite  order — ^had  made 
the  gown  look  like  new,  with  its  fresh  garniture.  Bee 
sank  into  her  easy  chair  and  gathered  all  the  charming 
follies  into  her  lap.  Their  gaiety,  their  luxurious  charm, 
blended  somehow  with  all  her  joyous  turbulence  of  new 


282   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

hopes — ^with  her  thought  of  Philip,  too,  who  might  at 
this  moment  be  awaiting  her.  How  could  she  tell  him 
the  whole  wonderful  news  in  hours,  even,  let  alone  a  few 
snatched  minutes?  Philip,  pink  buds.  Spirit  of  the  Water- 
fall, rosy  Georgette  crepe,  all  shimmered  like  some  blend- 
ing stage  spectacle  before  her  intoxicated  mind.  .  .  . 

Anna  was  handing  her  a  letter.  "Man  bring,"  ex- 
plained the  absence  of  a  stamp. 

No  letter  such  as  this  had  Bee  ever  received.  It  was 
addressed  to  her  in  the  laboured  handwriting  of  an  ig- 
norant person.  The  envelope  was  of  cheap  paper,  and 
smeary  about  the  flap.  Bee  turned  it  over  and  over,  in 
feminine  fashion,  wondering  who  could  have  sent  it.  And 
at  length  she  was  driven  to  that  ultimate  resource  of 
opening  it. 

There,  alone,  Bequita  read  her  letter.  She  read  it 
slowly,  from  first  line  to  last.  She  read  it  staring,  unbe- 
lieving, puzzling,  rejecting,  doubting,  shrinking,  con- 
founded, defying,  scorning,  wilting,  and  in  the  end  return- 
ing always  to  one  agony,  which  was  a  powerlessness  to  dis- 
believe. The  letter  would  not  be  disbelieved,  try  as  she 
might.  Subtly  it  insisted  upon  its  own  authenticity. 
There  was  that  in  it  which  rang  true.  That  ring — yes, 
that  was  the  thing  which  testified.  Something  that  lay 
between  the  lines.  Although  she  cried  in  white  silence 
against  belief,  Bequita  knew.     The  letter  told  the  truth. 

On  the  floor  at  her  feet  were  strewn  the  pretty  fol- 
lies that  she  had  gathered  into  her  lap.  The  rosy  froth 
of  the  gown,  the  shimmer  of  silk  hosiery,  slippers,  adorn- 
ments— all  lay  in  a  tumble,  slipped  from  her  hold.  All 
that  they  stood  for  seemed  to  have  slipped  from  her 


ADVENTURES  TEMPORAL  AND  SPIRITUAL  283 

hold,  as  well — their  unshadowed  youthfulness,  their  fra- 
grance of  wishes  and  blitheness  and  gaieties  and  allure- 
ments and  sweet  credulities — all  their  meaning  seemed  to 
have  slipped  from  her  along  with  them,  and  to  have 
crumpled,  and  the  soul  within  her  seemed  to  be  sitting 
there  as  the  body  sat,  a  mussed  sort  of  soul. 

Her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fallen  wreath.  There  it  lay, 
overturned,  and  the  wrong  side  of  it  lay  uppermost — a 
mesh  of  wires  and  long  stitches.  Were  all  lovely  things 
like  that  if  you  turned  them  over?  Helen  would  reply, 
"Of  course";  would  explain  that  the  right  side,  as  we 
call  it,  the  pretty  side  of  life,  is  nothing  more  than 
the  appearance  of  things,  and  that  you  only  get  at  the 
truth  when  you  turn  them  over  and  look  at  the  stitches 
end  wires. 

So  this — all  that  the  letter  revealed — was  the  wrong 
side,  the  ugly  side,  the  true  side  of  life.  .  .  . 

But  the  instinct  for  action  was  strong  in  Bequita,  for 
all  its  immaturity.  The  question  now  faced  her:  What 
was  to  be  done? 


CHAPTER  XV 
"GHOSTS  RISE'^ 


ON  the  afternoon  when  Bee  was  learning  from 
Zelie  her  great  news,  Helen  had  gone  forth  at 
a  curious  request  from  Dr.  Aspden.  He  had 
entered  her  office  that  morning  (by  way  of  the  general 
corridor,  of  course)  as  shyly  as  some  overgrown,  gruff 
boy,  and  had  gingerly  put  his  request. 

"Would  you,  on  some  convenient  day,  do  a  kind  act 
for  a  lone  and  ignorant  male  creature?" 

"Doing  kindnesses  for  male  creatures  is  not  in  my  line," 
she  flashed  gaily,  "but  out  with  it!    We'H  see." 

"I  want  your  judgment  on  some  furniture  and  cur- 
tains." 

Her  eyebrows  curved  in  delighted  surprise.  "Is  the 
house  found — the  long-anticipated  refuge  for  every 
grouch?" 

"Not  yet.  But  I've  decided  to  select  the  furniture 
and  perhaps  that  will  bring  the  house — the  old  principle 
of  'Get  your  spindle  and  your  distaff  ready,'  you  see." 

She  laughed.  "Nothing  gives  me  greater  pleasure 
than  minding  other  people's  business,"  she  assured  him. 
"Miss  Muldoon  is  away — tonsilitis — so  I've  got  to  omit 
some  of  my  work  to-day.     Let's  go  this  afternoon.'* 

284 


"GHOSTS  RISE'*  285 

"Reallj?"  He  beamed  quite  as  though  her  prompt 
response  were  too  good  to  be  true. 

Departing,  he  involuntarily  seized  the  knob  of  the 
sealed  door,  the  direct  route  to  his  own  office,  and  met 
its  sturdy  resistance. 

"Absurd !  Force  of  old  habit !"  he  exclaimed,  and  there 
showed  a  flush  of  annoyance  at  himself  as  he  turned. 

The  lady's  eyes  awaiting  his,  and  the  gleam  of  amuse- 
ment in  them,  by  no  means  decreased  his  flush.  But  there 
was  more  than  amusement. 

"Our  two  departments  have,  perforce,  a  great  deal 
of  communication,"  she  observed.  "Don't  you  think  it 
might  facilitate  matters  if — "  She  paused,  quizzically 
eyeing  him — "if  the  carpenter  were  called  to  unseal  our 
door?" 

For  a  long  moment  of  embarrassed  recollection,  amuse- 
ment, and  pleasure,  he  regarded  her.  Then,  "Really?" 
he  asked  again,  as  though  this,  also,  were  too  good  to 
be  true. 

He  picked  up  the  telephone  extension.  "Send  the  car- 
penter here  at  once,"^  he  directed. 


Helen  had  various  home  matters  to  attend  to  on  that 
day,  and,  as  she  was  to  give  the  later  afternoon  to  Dr. 
Aspden,  she  decided  to  run  up  home  for  lunch,  and  let 
him  come  for  her  at  half-past  three  at  the  Spindle  Club, 
which  was  within  the  shopping  district. 

She  must  make  ready  for  Bee's  dinner  engagement. 
Helen  assiduously  cultivated  the  frolicsome  side  of  her 


286   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

daughter  in  these  days,  believing  it  to  be  the  safety  valve 
for  romantic  broodings.  Yes,  she  must  be  sure  to 
repair  the  pink  gown,  to  freshen  its  trimmings,  so  that 
Bee  would  look  her  most  charming. 

She  found  that  Bee  had  already  lunched  and  gone 
when  she  reached  home,  so,  having  sewed  for  almost  an 
hour,  she  set  forth  the  costume  as  temptingly  as  a  wily 
shopkeeper  displaying  his  wares,  and  started  for  the 
Spindle. 

The  thought  of  the  Club,  of  finding  Dr.  Aspden  there, 
brought  back  to  her  with  fresh  vividness  that  day  of 
her  imp's  escapade,  which  had  sealed  their  friendship. 
Here,  crossing  Fifth  Avenue,  she  caught  herself  smiling 
with  a  gleam  of  remembered  mischief,  and  she  bit  her 
lip,  trying  to  drive  the  smile  back,  and  was  made  aware 
by  the  impertinent  glance  of  a  passing  male  that  the 
smile  still  incorrigibly  lighted  her  eye.  Wliat  a  jolly 
beginning  it  had  been,  and  how  comfortably  the  friend- 
ship had  grown  apace  ever  since!  Men  might,  indeed, 
be  delightful  comrades  on  the  basis  of  cool  friendship, 
once  kill  out  romantic  nonsense  for  all  time! 

She  had  several  blocks  to  traverse  in  the  rain — a  com- 
pulsion that,  on  another  day,  might  have  been  disagree- 
able. But  to-day  nothing  was  disagreeable.  Quite  un- 
realized by  herself,  a  glamour  was  cast  this  afternoon 
over  Helen  Kent's  world.  Strolling  easily  under  her  red 
umbrella,  she  looked  forth  with  delight  at  the  picture 
the  Avenue  presented.  A  host  of  other  gorgeous  um- 
brellas had  blossomed  there — ^blue  and  red  and  green  and 
purple — ^like  great  exotic  flowers  all  coming  forth  at  once 
in  the  moist  warmth. 


"GHOSTS  RISE"  287 

She  even  loitered  before  shop  windows.  Here  were 
imported  perfumes  in  bottles  of  irresistible  design;  toilet 
waters;  exquisite  soaps  and  powders:  all  the  delicately 
sensuous  luxuries  of  the  toilet  table.  Helen  lingered, 
seduced  by  their  charm;  they  played  upon  her  senses, 
and  so  did  the  warm,  still  rain,  and  the  gay  blossoming 
of  umbrellas.  .  .  . 

Here  she  was,  at  the  cross  street  of  the  Spindle.  Five 
minutes  later  she  was  greeting  Dr.  Aspden. 

"You  are  altogether  too  kind  to  a  lone  and  perplexed 
man,  to  help  liim  out  on  such  a  day.  But  you  shall 
be  kept  dry  in  the  car." 

Her  smile  was,  to  him,  inscrutable.  But  no  less  in- 
scrutable were  her  thoughts  to  herself. 

"To-day,  I  seem  somehow  to  like  even  rain,"  was  what 
she  said. 


ra 


Bee,  alone  in  the  apartment  in  the  later  afternoon, 
sat  staring  out  ,at  the  river  and  her  question.  What 
was  to  be  done? 

For   something  must  be   done,   and   immediately. 

Or,  on  the  otlier  hand,  should  nothing  be  done  ?  Should 
she  disregard  the  letter's  request,  tear  it  to  bits,  refuse 
to  believe  its  statements,  blot  it  from  her  life?  That, 
she  knew,  was  what  she  would  like  to  do.  But  that  was 
impossible. 

Should  she  wait,  and  turn  the  matter  over  to  Helen? 

But  Helen  had  left  no  word  concerning  her  return; 
she  miglit  be  dining  out,  going  to   the  theatre — ^hours 


288   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

might  elapse  if  Bee  waited  for  her.     And  besides,  if  she 
heeded    the    letter's    warning — "Say    nothing    to     any- 


There  before  her,  on  the  laboriously  written  sheet, 
were  fullest  instructions.  The  address  was  clear;  the  re- 
quest was,  to  come  at  once  and  alone.  Should  she  follow 
these  instructions  blindly,  implicitly? 

Her  decision  began  to  swing  like  a  pendulum.  She 
would  dash  for  her  wraps — throw  them  down — pin  on 
her  hat — declare  that  to  go  was  madness,  that  to  heed 
such  a  letter  from  a  stranger  was  preposterous 

And  the  letter,  poor  and  brief  and  dingy,  silently  re- 
garded her. 

There  was  a  long  minute  that  Bee  stood  dead  still, 
her  fists  drawn  tight. 

"I'll — go,"  she  said,  and  she  said  it  to  the  smeared 
sheet  as  to  a  human  being  awaiting  her  word.  It  seemed 
almost  to  sigh  its  relief. 

But  how?  The  locality  named  was  strange  to  her,  the 
afternoon  was  growing  late,  and  the  rain  had  brought 
an  early  dusk.  Could  she  find  the  way?  She  was  afraid 
— so  afraid  that  her  eyes  brightened  with  dread,  her 
muscles  grew  rigid.  And  then,  all  at  once,  in  the  midst 
of  her  fear,  a  recollection   sprang  forward. 

"Remember  the  word  of  John  Jenkins  Popp !"  it  seemed 
fairly  to  cry  aloud. 

Her  problem  was  solved.  On  this  strange,  terrifying 
mission,  good  Mr.  Popp  would  guide  her,  care  for  her. 
He  had  insisted  upon  her  having  his  telephone  num- 
ber. .  .  . 

In  an  incredibly  brief  time  Bee,  huddled  against  the 


"GHOSTS  RISE"  289 

rain  and  the  dismal  twilight  and  her  fear,  was  being 
driven  through  unknown  and  sinister  ways  under  a  care 
as  cherishing  as  it  was  reverential. 

"No  harm  shall  come  near  you,  Miss ;  I  am  your  serv- 
ant to  the  death,"  Mr.  Popp  had  assured  her  eloquently ; 
but,  unlike  some  eloquence,  she  knew  his  to  be  sincere. 

Huddled  in  the  depths  of  the  cab,  Bee  sat  rigid  and 
white,  her  hands  gripping  each  other  for  support.  Oh, 
would  her  courage  hold  out.?  cried  her  thoughts.  Could 
she  face  it?     Could  she,  oh,  could  she  "see  it  through?" 


IV 


The  address  proved  to  be  that  of  a  dreary  old  brick 
house  in  a  dreary  old  street,  shrunken  by  the  overshad- 
owing of  a  great  hospital.  The  hospital  buildings 
humped  themselves  in  the  rain,  grey  against  grey;  the 
house  shared  their  despairing  bleakness. 

**Shall  I — ahem — ^would  it  be  more  agreeable  to  you 
if  I  was  to  accompany  you  inside  the  door,  Miss?"  Mr. 
Popp  delicately  inquired.  At  sea  as  to  the  nature  of 
her  visit,  he  hovered  anxiously  over  it  like  a  nervous  old 
hen.  She  had  told  him,  merely,  that  she  was  obliged 
to  pay  an  unexpected  call  at  a  strange  house,  and  would 
be  grateful  for  his  escort. 

**No,  thank  you,  I  must  go  in  alone.  But  I  shall  know 
that  you  are  waiting  outside,  Mr.  Popp." 

"Till  the  crack  of  doom,  if  need  be,  Miss !" 

And  then,  in  swift  sequence,  she  had  been  ushered  into 
the  dingy  rooming-house,  had  found  the  landlady,  had 
been  led  to  that  person's  dining-room. 


290   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"I'll  have  him  come  to  you  here,"  said  the  landlady. 
She  stared  dully  at  Bee  through  jaded  eyes,  and  kept 
trying  to  button  her  olive-green  wrapper  while  she  talked, 
apparently  unaware  that  the  button  was  missing.  The 
room  smelled  of  soup  and  an  uncleaned  carpet  and  the 
rusty  gas  heater  and  years  of  non-ventilation. 

"Then  he  isn't  ill?"  Bee  asked  in  surprise.  "Your 
letter  said  that  he  would  probably  not  live  long.'^ 

"He  thought  so.  So'd  I.  Heart,"  replied  the  landlady 
succinctly.  "But  got  a  lot  better  quick.  Won't  last, 
though.  Liable  to  go  any  day.  He's  up  now.  Got 
clothes  on.  ...  I  take  'em  in  here  a  lot,  when  they're 
discharged  from  hospital,"  she  added  in  explanation. 

"He  has  been  in  hospital,  then  ?" 

"Yep.  Alcoholic."  With  which  brief  report,  she  left 
Bee  to  await  the  meeting. 


For  minutes  Bee  was  left  alone.  Then  the  inner  door 
opened,  and  a  man  advanced  toward  her.  He  paused, 
studying  her  face;  he  shut  the  door  behind  him,  so  that 
the  two  were  now  enclosed  together;  stiU  keeping  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  he  scanned  every  line  of 
her  face  as  one  devours  a  letter  to  get  the  gist  of  the 
message.  So  long  did  this  fierce  scrutiny  continue  that 
Bee,  meeting  it  intently,  dumbly,  had  opportunity  to 
seize  upon  all  that  went  outwardly  to  make  up  the  man: 
the  nerve-racked  thinness  of  the  whole  body,  called  to  her 
attention  by  the  blue-veined  emaciation  of  the  wrists,  by 
the  fleshless  neck;  the  haggard  youth  of  the  face,  a  boy* 


"GHOSTS  RISE'^  291 

Ishness  that  seemed  somehow  to  be  beckoning  through 
the  wreckage,  as  if  a  sinking  ship  hoisted  its  signal  and 
waved  gallantly  to  the  last.  Above  this  queerlj  old-young 
face  the  close  cropping  of  hospital  regulation  was  already 
being  defied  by  a  curly  mop  which  was  springing  anew— 
and  as  white  as  old  age.  But  the  blue  eyes,  brilliant  as 
water  under  sun,  held  to  youth;  the  eyes,  and  also  a 
certain  movement  or  attitude  of  the  bod}' — some  turn,  or 
swing,  that  still  had  a  lilt  in  it. 

After  moments  of  this  face-to-face  scrutiny,  he  said 
brusquely : 

"Turn  your  profile." 

Still  dumb.  Bee  obeyed. 

At  last  he  summed  up  his  conclusions: 

"You  haven't  a  trace  of  her  about  you,  except  in  the 
chin  and  line  of  the  jaw.  There  you  show  her  determi- 
nation to  do  what  you  set  out  to  do.  Otherwise,  you're 
me  all  over — and  may  the  Lord  help  you !" 

Bee  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  her  face  at  last.  Even 
that  was  a  relief,  after  the  whiteness  of  dread  of  which 
she  had  been  conscious.  Yes,  the  suspense  was  over  in 
a  way;  at  least,  there  was  no  more  speculation  concern- 
ing the  personality.  This  was  all  she  had  to  meet — 
a  white-haired  wreck  of  a  man,  with  blue  eyes  no  older 
than  her  own. 

He  seemed  to  be  waiting  now  for  her  to  speak ;  to  speak 
out  of  the  void  of  almost  twenty  years  of  silence  and  of 
complete  strangerhood.  And  still  she  stood  without  a 
word;  what  could  the  past,  the  present,  or  the  future 
offer  these  two  in  common? 

Perhaps  seeing  her  embarrassment,  perhaps  overcom-- 


292   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

ing  a  timidity  of  hi&  own,  he  drew  forward  a  chair  for  her. 

"  'Rebequita/  ^  he  said,  as  though  trying  its  sounds 
"  'Bee,'  "  we  were  going  to  call  you.  You're  still  called 
that?" 

"Yes." 

He  repeated  the  name  musingly.  "It's  been  six  years 
now  since  I  saw  you  last.  Then  you  were  hardly  through 
being  little  Bee." 

"Six  years !"  she  puzzled  aloud.  "But  weVe  never  met 
since  I  was  a  baby!" 

"Oh,  yes,  we  have."  He  laughed  deep  in  his  throat; 
almost  a  muffled  groan,  his  laugh  was.  "We  met  six 
years  ago  on  Sutter  Street  in  San  Francisco.  I  was  in 
no  danger  of  being  recognised,  but  I  saw.  You  wore  a 
long  braid — it  wasn't  *done  up'  yet — ^^and  a  lot  of  butter- 
cups and  daisies  and  things  on  your  hat.'* 

"I  remember  the  hat,"  murmured  Bee. 

*T.ooked  like  the  wreaths  a  little  girl  would  make  her- 
self, out  in  the  fields,  in  summer.  If  she  went  walking, 
maybe — with  somebody — ^her  Daddy,  say " 

His  voice  was  drifting  away  as  his  eyes  were.  They 
strayed  out  over  the  grey  hospital  walls  rising  in  tiers, 
over  the  roofs  now  dun  with  the  rain's  twilight. 

"Those  California  fields — they  can  put  it  all  over  this, 
can't  they.'"'  He  came  back  with  a  sorry  little  comer- 
wise  smile. 

He  took  a  seat  now  near  Bee's,  but  no  nearer  than 
a  formal  caller  might  draw  to  his  hostess.  In  fact,  there 
was  no  familiarity  whatever  in  his  manner;  rather,  a 
suggestion  of  maintaining  a  respectful  distance,  like  one 
entitled  to  nothing  more.     But  on  the  other  hand,  this 


"GHOSTS  RISE''  293 

manner  did  not  shade  by  a  hair's-breadth  toward  cring- 
ing; in  fact,  it  was  that  respect  for  another  which  is 
one  with  self-respect.  WTiatever  else  had  gone  to  wreck 
in  body,  intellect,  or  soul,  she  felt  intuitively  that  one 
quality  stood  upright,  like  the  tree  left  standing  by  the 
tornado:  that  quality  was  personal  dignity.  It  sur- 
vived even  here  and  now,  in  the  midst  of  all  that  was 
sordid,  at  the  close  of  a  detention  in  the  city's  psycho- 
pathic ward. 

"I  suppose,"  he  began  at  length,  "you'd  like  a  brief 
explanation,  inasmuch  as  you've  regarded  me  as  dead  for 
the  last  four  years  or  so."  His  inflection  was  a  query; 
the  only  answer  she  could  make  was  to  nod  assent. 

"I  can  cover  the  story  quickly.  History's  a  bore,  so 
the  sooner  it's  done,  the  better.  Of  course,  as  you've 
always  known,  no  doubt,  I  went  from  bad  to  worse. 
After  I'd  drifted  into  Idaho,  and  was  running  with  about 
the  lowest-down  gang  in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  it  hap- 
pened that  I  acquired  a  pal  so  like  me  that  our  own 
wives  could  hardly  have  told  us  apart.  Charlie  and  I 
used  to  palm  ourselves  off  for  each  other,  just  to  see 
the  fun." 

He  paused,  drawing  the  long,  tired  breath  of  a  sick 
man. 

"Don't  tell  the  story  if  it  tires  you,"  Bee  put  in,  her 
woman's  instinct  to  the  fore. 

At  that  he  regarded  her  keenly  again.  "You're  sym- 
pathetic, aren't  you?  .  .  .  No,"  he  went  on  musingly, 
'*you  haven't  got  anything  of  hers  but  her  chin. 

"Well,"  he  picked  up  his  narrative,  "something — never 
mind  what — took  place  about  four  years  ago  that  made 


294   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

it  advisable  for  me  to  disappear  as  promptly  as  possi- 
ble." He  gave  a  short,  harsh  laugh.  "And,  very  con- 
veniently, and  to  show  how  obliging  a  good  old  pal  could 
be,  Charlie  happened  to  get  killed  by  a  drunken  Indian 
at  the  same  time.  So — well  the  details  don't  matter, 
but  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is  that  another  good 
friend  arranged  to  have  it  understood  that  I  was  the 
one  killed,  and  that  Charlie  had  gone  to  Alaska.  It 
was  especially  easy,  in  that  no  one  wanted  to  investi- 
gate— my  relatives  were  all  pretty  well  satisfied  to  accept 
me  as  dead  and  gone,  and  no  chance  of  my  disgracing 
them  any  further."  He  shrugged  and  fell  silent,  again 
gazing  out  at  the  dun  twihght. 

"Have  you  been — ^long  in  the  East?"  hesitated  Bee, 
caught  by  an  odd  sense  of  delicacy  at  pressing  for  more 
information  than  was  offered. 

"Longer  than  you.  I  resurrected  myself  and  worked 
my  way  here  at  once,  after  I  was  killed."  Again  that 
queer,  half-flippant,  half-tragic  smile  curled  the  beauti- 
fully cut  lips.  They  were  the  lips  of  a  child  or  a  poet. 
Bee  noticed;  more  beauty  than  strength  in  their  model- 
ling, but  a  charm  only  outdone  by  that  of  the  boyishly 
blue  eyes. 

^'I've  always  kept  track  of  you.  Once  in  a  while  I 
used  to  see  you,  when  you  lived  near  the  University — — '* 

*'How?     Where?"  her  wonder  broke  forth. 

He  laughed  dully.  "Never  mind  how.  I  knew  when 
she  was  in  San  Francisco,  and  I  managed  to  slip  around 
where  I  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  you.  Once  I  met  you 
with  a  beau,  and  I  wondered  if  you'd  every  marry,  and 


"GHOSTS  RISE'*  295 

what  luck  you^d  have  at  the  game.  The  Lord  knows 
she  drew  a  blank." 

Neither  broke  the  silence  for  a  long  time.    After  awhile : 

"Another  day  I  followed  3^ou  secretly  when  you  were 
out  in  the  country,"  he  resumed.  "You  walked  over 
the  hills  to  a  lonely  spot  under  the  live  oaks,  and  there, 
all  by  yourself,  you  danced.  I  don't  know  what  the 
dance  was,  but  it  made  me  think  of  a  mariposa  lily — • 
a  butterfly  attached  to  a  stem.  If  you  hadn't  been 
attached,  I  kept  thinking,  you'd  make  a  clean  getaway 
from  this  earth." 

Bee's  exclamation  leaped  at  the  surprise  of  this.  "I 
remember  the  day  perfectly!  You  don't  mean  that  j-ou 
were  there  watching?" 

"All  the  time.  I  dodged  behind  trees,  or  a  wall.  Oh, 
I've  never  quite  lost  you.  I  knew  when  you  came  to  New 
York,  and  I've  seen  you  here,  though  only  at  a  distance. 
And  the  older  you  grow,   the  more  3^ou  look  like  me." 

In  the  gathering  dark  they  gazed  for  moments  each 
at  the  other  face  so  strangely  similar.  Yes,  it  was  true ; 
for  all  the  snowy  hair,  the  marks  of  sickness,  the  lines 
of  hard  living,  the  likeness  still  was  insistent. 

"I  suppose  you'd  like  to  curse  because  it's  so?"  he 
flung  out. 

At  first  she  did  not  reply.  Bequita's  world  was  too 
much  overturned  for  her  as  yet  to  find  her  position  upon 
it.  That  the  dead  lived;  that  she  had  a  father;  that 
he  had  sought  her ;  that  he  was  this  derelict,  here  before 
her  eyes,  sick,  broken,  branded,  low — by  all  these  facts 
she  was  too  much  confounded  for  speech,  for  approach 
of  any  kind,  either  of  blame  or  sentiment. 


296   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

But  at  last  words  came:  words  that  surprised  her  as 
much  as  they  surprised  him. 

"No.  I  wasn't  wishing  I  looked  unlike  you.  Some- 
how, I  think — I'm  not  sorry  at  all.  I  was  just  feeling 
that — that  if  we  had  met  before,  we  might  have — got 
acquainted.  Maybe  there's  something  alike — something, 
I  mean,  more  important  than  the  colour  of  our  eyes  of 
that  tweak  in  our  noses." 

She  could  see  that  he  flushed  at  this,  and  a  longing 
sprang  into  his  eyes,  and  he  made  an  impulsive  move 
toward  her;  but  at  once  he  crushed  back  the  impulse, 
as  if  disciplined  by  a  grim  resolve. 

"The  one  kindness  I've  ever  shown  you  was  to  keep 
from  getting  acquainted.  For  nineteen  years  I've  kept 
from  disturbing  you,  and  this  is  the  last  time  as  well  as 
the  first.  I  wouldn't  have  done  it  now  if  I  hadn't  known 
I'm  done  for,  and  I  gave  way  to  my  great  desire  to  speak 
with  you  once  —  and  I  was  ashamed  the  minute  I'd 
done  it." 

Amidst  all  the  chaos  of  her  thoughts,  Bee  found  one. 
"I'm  glad  you  did.     I  shall  always  be  glad." 

He  looked  at  her  gratefully.  "Thank  you  for  that* 
I  don't  know  why  you  should  say  it,  but  you  seem  to 
mean  it.  Perhaps  you  prefer  to  know  the  worst  at  once," 
he  smiled  quizzically.  "And  since  we  are  not  to  meet 
again — oh,  don't  fear,  I  haven't  butted  in  on  your  life 
to  spoil  it,  like  an  impolite  skeleton  stalking  out  of  his 
closet  in  the  midst  of  an  afternoon  tea — I'm  going  to 
drop  out,  you  see,  just  as  I  did  before — so  let's  under- 
stand a  few  points  clearly.  First,  don't  say  anything  to 
her  about  this." 


"GHOSTS  RISE"  297 

He  had  not  once  spoken  Helen's  name.  And  without 
knowing  why,  Bee  fell  into  his  pronominal  mention. 

"But  I  shaU  have  to  tell  her." 

"Wlij?" 

"Because — oh,  because "   She  fumbled  for  a  reason. 

As  always  it  was,  in  fact,  the  long  habit  of  submission 
to  a  dominant  nature. 

"Don't  do  it,"  he  said  with  quiet  finality.  "It's  bet- 
ter not,  all  'round.  Once  I  thought  I'd  get  in  touch  with 
her  myself — a  mere  freakish  impulse.  I  telephoned  her 
ofiice,  but  she  was  out,  as  good  luck  had  it.  I  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  one  day — hung  around  when  she  was 
coming  out  at  noon.  After  that  one  look  in  her  face, 
I  might  have  known  we'd  better  never  meet.  .  .  .  She 
grows  handsomer — she's  the  type  to  reach  her  height  in 
maturity.  Now  you're  different ;  youth  is  your  long  suit, 
you  are  the  spirit  of  youth,  spring,  blossoms,  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't  wish  her  anything  but 
luck,  God  knows,  and  I  wouldn't  add  one  pain  to  all 
I've  caused  her,  by  letting  her  know  of  my  existence. 
And  there's  nothing  in  it  for  either  of  us.  So  don't  tell 
her,  Bee." 

Though  troubled,  she  felt  obliged  to  yield.  Unknow- 
ingly he  had  added  another  burden  to  the  load  of  secrecy 
that  she,  open  as  the  day  by  nature,  had  by  such  com- 
plex devices  of  circumstance  been  trapped  into  carrying. 

"And  don't  try  to  come  again  yourself.  As  I  said, 
I'm  ashamed  that  I  asked  it  of  you  at  all — ^I'd  never 
have  done  it  if  I  hadn't  thought  I  was  dying  at  the 
time  I  got  the  woman  to  write,  and  my  good  resolution 
gave  way  that  once.    But  I  shan't  last  much  longer,  any- 


298   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

way;  and  you're  to  keep  on  thinking  of  me  jilst  as  you 
have  been  doing  all  along — as  dead  and  gone." 

"But  I  might  do  something  for  you!"  She  swept  up, 
in  her  glance,  the  poverty  of  background,  and  dwelt  at 
length  upon  the  aspect  of  the  man's  own  misery. 

He  smiled,  as  though  pleased.  "I  neither  deserve 
nor  need  doing  for.  No ;  I  insist ;  leave  me  alone.  Bee,  in 
every  sense  of  the  word.  Forget  me.  I  prefer  to  drop 
out  again,  and  let  the  world  wash  over.  It's  going  to 
mean  something  to  me  that  you  offered,  though.  And 
now  you  must  be  hurrying  back." 

He  was  dismissing  her,  exhausted  by  the  long  inter- 
view which  had  been  little  but  a  monologue;  but  she  did 
not  go.  Still  she  was  all  confusion,  stunned  by  the  whole 
situation,  unable  to  formulate  her  own  emotions.  Im- 
pulses pressed  forward,  then  fell  back,  puzzled  and  afraid. 
In  the  pause  of  her  failing  to  go,  his  eyes  and  thoughts 
strayed  once  more.  Suddenly  they  turned  to  her,  alert 
with  a  question: 

"I  suppose  you've  been  taught  that  there's  nothing  else 
— nothing  beyond,  above,  I  mean  ?"  His  gesture  indi- 
cated some  vague  space,  such  as  the  sky. 

"You  mean  that  there's  no  God?" 

"Well,  yes — God,  by  way  of  attaching  some  name 
to  it." 

"Of  course.     I  was  taught  that  from  the  first." 

He  drummed  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  staring  at  the 
floor. 

"And  you  believe  that.?"  he  demanded  at  length. 

Her  lips  began  to  form  "Of  course."  Then  they 
halted. 


"GHOSTS  RISE"  299 

"I've  always  hnomn  there  was  nothing  but  cold-blooded 
law  of  nature,  that  everything  else  was  a  delusion.  But 
sometimes — oh,  sometimes,  it  feels  as  if  there  were  some- 
thing else!"  She  pressed  toward  him  eagerly,  subjec- 
tively aware  of  response  in  his  silence.  "Do  you  (you 
do!)   know  what  I  mean.?" 

"Rather,"  he  answered  drily.  Then,  "Bee,  if  I  didn't 
know,  I'd  have  put  a  buUet  here"  (touching  his  temple) 
"fifteen  years  ago.  You  may  say  that  I'd  better  have 
done  it.  But  I  kept  from  it  because,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, I  always  felt — ^well,  what  you  feel.  I  don't  bother 
about  the  churches.  She  always  said  that  the  church 
was  like  the  spinning-wheel  in  having  outlived  its  use- 
fuhiess,  but  the  difference  was  that  the  former  hadn't 
the  grace  of  the  latter  to  stop  whirring,"  he  observed 
with  a  parenthetical  smile.  "No — ^it's  something  bigger 
than  churches  that  I  mean.  And  as  for  the  name  *God,' 
that's  just  a  handle  to  try  and  get  hold  of  it  by.  It's 
something  bigger  than  such  a  name  implies." 

"I  know!"  Bee  breathed.  "More  like  some  wonderful 
kind  of  air,  that  flows  all  around  us,  all  the  time  and 
everywhere." 

"Yes.  That's  what  I  mean.  The  people  that  say 
'God,'  instinctively  see  a  sort  of  super-person — and  it 
isn't  that.  It's  spirit,  force;  and  the  essential  point 
I'm  making  is  that  it  is  not  cold-blooded  force;  it  is 
of  the  nature  of  love,  and  it  recognises  individual  need.'* 

The  awed  stillness  of  revelation  seemed  to  fill  the  dark- 
ening room.  "Oh,  I'm  so  glad  that  you've  told  me; 
that  you  feel  it,  too!"  she  whispered  through  the  hush, 

"You'll  remember  it   sometime.     It's  the  word  of  a 


300   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

derelict,  a  down-and-outer,  and  a  rotter — and  perhaps 
it  carries  all  the  more  weight  for  that  reason.  That 
force,  or  spirit,  or  love,  or  what  you  will,  is  the  only 
living  thing  that  ever  kept  on  believing  in  me  in  spite 
of  what  it  saw  of  me." 

He  paused,  and  his  eyes,  grey  now,  rather  than  blue, 
as  though  shadowed  by  gravity,  rested  upon  hers  with 
profound   significance. 

"Bee,  remember  this,  too:  you've  got  to  learn  to  go 
by  what  It  teUs  you,  not  by  anybody  else's  orders.  You'll 
never  know  right  from  wrong  so  long  as  you  let  some- 
body else  be  your  conscience.  You  need  to  remember 
that!"     He  smiled  with  curious  emphasis. 

The  door  opened  to  the  landlady,  bearing  a  smelly  oil 
lamp. 

"Saves  gas,"  she  remarked. 

"Good-bye,"  Vernon  said. 

Bee  turned  to  go.  Their  hands  hesitated,  then  met  in 
a  mutually  shy  clasp. 

It  was  over.  The  grey  street  received  her,  AU  the 
words  said  and  unsaid,  the  spectral  appearance,  the 
strange  mutualities,  above  all,  the  revelation  of  those 
long  years  of  a  secret,  passionate,  shyly  pursuant  love 
that  had  never  quite  failed  to  follow  her,  lay  as  yet  like 
the  dim  forms  upon  a  negative,  unseen  but  present,  in 
the  future  to  be  developed  to  clearness  in  the  dark  room 
of  lonely  wakings,  by  such  chemicals  asj  love  and  pity 
and  suffering  and  maturer  vision. 

But  as  yet  it  had  all  been  too  swift,  too  startling. 
Her  thoughts  remained  a  chaos.     Mr.  Popp  was  holding 


"GHOSTS  RISE"  301 

the  umbrella  with  the  clucking  tenderness  of  a  hen  that 
extends  its  wing  to  a  dazed  chick. 

Bee  sank  back,  exhausted,  in  the  caVs  remotest  comer. 

"Home,  Miss?" 

The  faded  voice  of  Bequita  murmured,  "Home." 


VI 


The  long  drive  uptown  was  grey,  like  everything  else. 
To  Bee,  the  world  seemed  faded  out  to  one  bleak  colour, 
the  colour  of  the  rain  and  the  sky.  All  the  vividness 
that  had  shone  for  her  a  short  time  before  had  been 
blotted  out  by  this  tragic  experience.  Like  her  first 
walk  alone  with  her  lover,  like  the  first  kiss,  it  was  to 
become  one  of  the  few  immortal  experiences  that  go 
to  make  up  a  life;  but  as  yet  she  found  in  it  only  con- 
fusion and  numb  misery.  She  had  forgotten  the  gay 
party  to  which  she  was  to  have  gone ;  the  dazzling  pros- 
pect of  her  debut;  even  the  moment  she  was  to  have 
had  with  Phihp.  She  seemed  to  be  sitting  alone  in  the 
midst  of  infinite  grey  rain,  eternal  grey  rain.  .  .  . 

She  entered  the  apartment  with  her  own  key,  wonder- 
ing vaguely  whether  Helen  would  have  returned,  and 
whether  it  were  time  for  dinner  or  long  past,  and  how 
it  would  feel  to  go  on  knowing  that  she  had  a  father, 
and  in  the  same  city,  and  whether  she  should  ever  know 
more 

The  living-room  was  softly  bright  with  candles — she 
recognised  the  candle-light  even  here,  in  the  hall.  Helen 
must  have  a  guest,  then:  alone,  she  chose  the  stronger 
lamp-light   for  reading  or   sewing.      But   there   was   no 


302   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

sound  of  voices.  And  jet,  by  that  sixth  sense  which 
occasionally  imparts  information  to  each  of  us,  and  which 
is  particularly  acute  in  such  natures  as  Bee's,  she  felt 
that  some  visitor  was   there 

Puzzled,  she  paused.  And  now,  after  a  charged  silence, 
someone  was  speaking — a  man,  in  a  low,  intense  voice: 

"Mrs.  Kent,  you  can't  mean  what  you  say!  Surely 
this  bitterness  of  yours  is  a  cloak  to  hide  your  deeper 
feelings.  It  is  impossible — a  woman  like  you  can  never 
hold  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  love;  that  it  is,  as 
you  say,  'the  erotic  moonshine  of  sickly  youth,'  and  *a 
perilous  infection' — in  short,  only  a  vicious  delusion.  I 
won't  believe  that  you  believe  it!     Mrs.  Kent " 

For  these  moments  Bee  had  stood  as  if  in  shackles, 
powerless  to  move,  to  disclose  her  presence.  But  now 
her  forces  somehow  rallied;  all  at  once  she  was  alive, 
burning  with  haste.  This  terrible  thing — it  must  be 
stopped — Helen  must  be  told !  In  the  face  of  this  situa- 
tion, Vernon's  request  for  silence  was  as  nothing.  It 
was  impossible  to  heed  it.  To  what  length  might  Helen, 
ignorant,  go?  leaped  Bee's  imagination  (which  had  con- 
strued the  Doctor's  words  as  "love-making") — even  to 
marriage,  perhaps ! 

White  and  panting,  she  stood  before  the  two.  Her 
hand  was  out  to  them,  as  though  to  ward  off  some  catas- 
trophe. 

"Don't!"  she  cried,  breathless.  "You  mustn't  go  on! 
You  don't  know!  Helen  Kent,  don't  let  that  man  say 
another  word  of  love  to  you!" 

Aghast,  the  two  stared  at  her.  They  had  fancied 
themselves  to  be  engaged  in  abstract  argument. 


"GHOSTS  RISE'^  303 

"You  don't  know!"  gasped  Bee.  "Oh,  you  don't 
know!" 

The  two  had  risen,  dumbfounded,  and  still  they  did 
not  speak. 

"He — ^he — oh,  he  isn't  dead,  Helen !  And  his  hair — it's 
so  beautiful,  and  snow-white!     And  he  looks  like  m^/" 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  STORM 


IT  was  the  end  of  July.  New  York's  midsummer  hung 
heavy  in  the  storm-breeding  air.  Helen,  having 
done  with  the  last  detail  of  tickets,  baggage  express- 
ing, Pullman  reservations  and  time-tables,  sank  into  a 
chair  beside  the  open  window.  And,  as  always  nowadays 
— during  day  and  night,  whenever  alone — she  fell  to  re- 
living all  of  those  crowded  hours  of  one  June  night, 
weeks  in  the  past  though  it  now  was,  and  all  the  subse- 
quent days.  ... 

Again,  as  though  it  were  happening  at  this  instant, 
she  felt  the  numbing  shock  of  that  terrible  news  which 
Bee  had  brought.  She  felt  the  push  of  events  that  had 
followed,  carrying  her,  dazed,  upon  the  current  of  their 
haste.  Again  Bee  stood  before  her,  white,  insistent ;  again 
she  was  crying  out  in  fear: 

"He  isn't  dead  1" 

There  followed  the  silence  that  seemed  never  to  be 
broken;  then  the  rapid,  chaotic]  questioning;  then  the 
whirl  of  happenings  in  which  Helen  appeared  to  her- 
self merely  a  leaf  picked  up  and  borne  along. 

It  was  Dr.  Aspden,  quick,  terse,  masterfully  helpful, 

304 


THE  STORM  305 

who  was  directing  these  happenings.  He  was  putting 
his  car  at  her  service;  she  saw  the  three  of  them  again 
as  they  entered  it,  caught  the  smell  of  leather  within 
its  closed  depths,  sealed  against  the  rain.  That  smell 
was  in  her  nostrils  still — what  was  there  that  clung 
so  about  the  memory  of  any  odour,  she  wondered?  And 
then  the  long,  eternally  long  drive,  although  he  drove 
as  fast  as  permissible.  Oppressive  stillness  held  them, 
save  when  now  and  then  some  suddenly-thought-of  ques- 
tion darted  from  her  to  Bee.  .  .  .  The  bleak  house  at 
last;  the  unbuttoned  landlady  at  the  door,  peering  past 
her  noisome  oil  lamp;  pelting  queries;  the  landlady's 
succinct  reply :  "He's  took  worse  again.  You  kin  go  up." 

They  were  in  the  hall.  Helen  turned  to  the  others. 
"I  wish  to  go  alone." 

Alone,  then,  guided  by  the  landlady's  lamp,  she  was 
finding  her  way  once  more  to  the  "top-floor  rear" — she 
was  entering — ^he  was  turning  feebly  upon  his  pillow 

"Oh!  So  Bee  told,  after  all,"  he  murmured  in  a  tone 
that  bespoke  disappointment  in  Bee. 

"She  did  only  what  she  was — or  imagined  she  was — 
compelled  to  do,  because  of  unexpected  circumstances," 
Helen  replied  in  prompt  extenuation.  "NaturaUy,  when 
I  learned  this,  I  felt  obliged  to  come  and  see  for  myself. 
She  might  have  been  duped." 

Even  then,  upon  that  sick  face,  there  was  an  amused 
curl  of  the  beautifully  cut  lips,  the  curl  that  she  remem- 
bered, as  he  asked: 

"Well — are  you  satisfied  that  she  was  not  *duped'?" 

She  did  not  reply.  She  had  seated  herself  near  the 
bed,  but  in  no  contact  with  anything  pertaining  to  the 


306   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

man  before  her.  The  two  regarded  one  another.  At 
last  he  smiled  again,  but  this  time  one  could  not  have 
said  whether  the  smile  was  droll  or  sorry. 

"Well,  Helen,"  he  observed,  "ghosts  rise,  you  seel" 
The  smile  faded,  the  eyes  wearily  closed.  She  sat 
there  still,  noting  every  feature,  above  all  the  snowy 
crop  of  hair,  thick  and  clustering  in  curls.  It  once  had 
been  the  yellow  mass  in  which  her  fingers  had  lain  tan- 
gled. ...  A  faintness  came  over  her,  and  she  closed 
her  eyes  for  minutes.  When  she  opened  them,  he  was 
dead. 


And  now,  whirling  on,  swift  as  the  processes  of  a 
dream,  followed  all  the  events  which  together  made  up 
the  fog  of  dreadfulness  that  had  surrounded  her,  black, 
impenetrable.  In  it  she  could  distinguish  nothing  clearly ; 
it  was  hideous  and  enveloping.  Although  her  freedom 
was  now  as  complete  as  she  had  all  along  supposed  it 
to  be,  somehow  the  revelation  of  that  night  seemed  drag- 
ging her  back,  away  from  daylight,  into  its  own  sor- 
did gloom,  a  gloom  that  she  felt  she  could  never  es- 
cape. •  •  « 

And  then,  breaking  the  fog  ever  so  gradually,  at  first 
only  faintly  discernible,  came  light.  And  that  light  was 
shed  by  the  most  perfect  friendship  that  she  had  ever 
known. 

The  perfectness  lay  in  many  things.  For  one,  the 
unquestioning  silence  through  which  Cuyler  Aspden  had 
somehow  conveyed  a  sympathy  such  as  she  had  never 


THE  STORM  307 

felt  before  in  either  man  or  woman.  It  was  the  sym- 
pathy of  complete  understanding.  As  a  physician  and 
a  friend,  he  had  taken  upon  himself  all  the  dreary  duties 
— such  matters  as  decent  burial,  supervision  of  bills, 
notices  forwarded — all  the  bleak  and  usual  formula.  He 
had  headed  off  a  multitude  of  annoyances,  had  antici- 
pated her  wishes  at  every  point.  Yes,  that  unfailing 
service  was  another  phase  of  the  perfect  friendship. 

And  then,  too,  the  still,  masterful  gentleness  of  him 
— never  intruding,  but  just  quietly  there — a  thing  stout 
as  a  wall  for  shelter,  and  yet  as  unobtrusive  in  its 
strength,  a  wall  that  smothers  itself  in  the  softness  of 
ivy  to  conceal  its  own  stoutness.  Yes,  these  all  went 
to  make  up  the  perfectness.  .  .  . 

And  there  alone  in  her  living-room,  gazing  forth  at 
the  still  river  which  for  so  long  a  time  had  received  her 
daughter's  confidence,  Helen  Kent  made  her  confession: 

"I  don't  fool  myself  any  longer.'* 

She  hardly  knew  whether  this  fact  were  chiefly  terri- 
fying, or  amusing,  or  humiliating,  or  loathsome.  She 
only  knew  it  to  be  true;  she  "didn't  fool  herself  any 
longer."  And  that,  in  summary,  was  the  significance  that 
the  return  of  Vernon  Kent  had  held  for  her. 

Up  to  the  moment  of  Bee's  dreadful  announcement, 
she  had  fooled  herself  completely,  duped  by  her  own 
cynical  bravado.  She  had  believed  herself  invulnerable. 
The  idea  that  Cuyler  Aspden,  any  more  than  any  other 
man,  could  pierce  her  armour,  would  have  been  prepos- 
terous. And  she  had  chosen  to  assume  the  invulnerability 
of  his  long-confirmed  bachelorhood  as  equal  to  her  own. 
It  was  only  on  that  June  evening,  for  the  filrst  time, 


308  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

that  he  had  shown  otherwise;  returning  home  with  her 
from  their  shopping  excursion,  he  had,  under  the  guise 
of  abstract  argument,  sounded  the  note  which  so  alarmed 
Bee;  Helen  had  been  making  return,  however,  in  her  old 
satirical  vein.  And  then  the  whirl  of  confounding 
events.  ...  It  had  been  like  his  delicacy  to  leave  the 
subject  dormant  so  far.  But  he  would  return  to  it,  she 
knew;  how  could  she  again  meet  it?  For  she  "didn't 
fool  herself  any  longer." 

It  was  not  mere  friendship.  It  was  the  other  thing. 
It  was  the  thing  at  which  she  had  sneered  and  scoffed 
for  a  score  of  years.  It  was  the  delusion  against  which, 
in  her  daughter,  she  had  fought  as  against  a  devouring 
enemy.  It  was  the  prime  peril  of  womanhood;  it  was 
that  which  devastated  happiness,  wrought  ruin  for  a 
lifetime.  Yes,  she  recognised  it;  looking  back  to  that 
June  night  she  knew  now  that,  in  her  subconscious  mind, 
she  had  recognised  it  at  the  moment  of  learning  that 
she  was  still  a  married  woman.  She  had  not  had  the 
slightest  desire  to  marry  again;  she  would  have  railed 
angrily  at  the  suggestion ;  but  the  revelation  that  she  was 
not  free  to  do  so,  briefly  as  it  lasted,  had  opened  her  eyes. 
She  had  felt  herself  turn  ashy  at  the  sudden  sight  of  a 
barrier  between  herself  and  Cuyler  Aspden.  Vernon 
Kent,  rising  from  the  dead,  although  so  promptly  return- 
ing, had  shown  her  the  truth. 

Well — ^what  of  it.?  Crush  the  thing,  of  course!  It 
was  astonishing  and  humiliating  to  find  that  the  auto- 
matic reactions  of  even  her  nature  could  still  be  subject 
to  so  human  a  weakness.  But  in  her  clear  knowledge 
lay  safety.    Will  power  was  everything;  will  power  could 


THE  STORM  309 

be  relied  upon  to  stamp  out  this  fancy  as  it  had  stamped 
out  headaches  or  cured  her  of  influenza.  And  a  friend- 
ship so  invaluable  should  not  be  sacrificed  to  any  insane 
emotionalism.  Reason  should  carry  the  day,  and  mat- 
ters should  stand  exactly  where  they  were 

"There!  My  trunk's  done."  Bee  emerged  from  her 
room. 

"Thank  fortune,  we're  leaving  for  the  mountains  to- 
morrow. The  weather  is  really  intolerable.  I  hope  Dr. 
Aspden  and  I  shan't  be  caught  in  a  thunderstorm  to- 
day."    Helen  scanned  the  sky. 

Bee's  languid  glance  seemed  to  Helen  to  comment 
upon  the  frequency  of  these  drives  with  Dr.  Aspden,  but 
at  once  she  rebuked  herself  for  self-consciousness. 

"Are  you  driving  far.'"' 

"Several  miles  up  into  Westchester  County.  The  Com- 
pany is  arranging  for  a  hospital,  and  the  Doctor  wants 
me  to  look  over  the  ground." 

"Then  you  won't  be  home  for  dinner?'* 

"There  he  is  now!"  Helen  observed,  catching  sight 
of  the  grey  car  below.  "Yes,  dear,  I  shall  be  home 
for  dinner,"  she  turned  to  reply.  "Unless  a  storm  should 
prevent." 

Helen  paused.  Then,  "Bee,  won't  you  go  along  to- 
day .^^  You  know  Dr.  Aspden  always  wants  you — as 
do  I." 

But  as  always.  Bee  shook  her  head.  "No,  thank  you, 
Helen,     I'm  going  to  the  roof  to  look  for  a  breeze." 

Before  the  Doctor  was  announced.  Bee  had  slipped 
away. 


310      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

in 

Slipping  away  made  it  easier  to  dodge  the  Doctor's 
invitation,  for  one  thing;  Bee  always  dodged  when  pos- 
sible. But,  moreover,  she  had  her  own  plans  for  this, 
the  last  afternoon  before  the  month  of  absence.  She 
hurried  to  Toby;  there,  beneath  his  blue  coat,  she  found 
the  brief  message  which  told  her  that  Philip  would  meet 
her  in  Riverside  Park  at  two  o'clock.  It  was  to  be 
the  longest   afternoon  they  had  ever  had  together. 

The  mass  of  blue-black  in  the  west  claimed  her  notice. 

"It  looks  dreadfully  near!"     Her  hope  fell,  dismayed. 

But  the  next  instant  the  sun  had  broken  through,  and 
hope  with  it.  After  all,  it  didn't  look  so  much  like  a 
storm;  and  it  was  a  shame  to  change  the  plan  for  a 
mere  fear.  Philip  would  be  frightfully  disappointed;  a 
man  never  thinks  it  is  going  to  rain!  In  the  end,  the 
Doctor  and  Helen  having  departed,  Bee  hurried  down- 
stairs to  dress  for  the  expedition. 


rv 


They  set  sail  via  the  Fort  Lee  ferry.  An  old  brown 
boat  like  a  beetle  waddled  with  them  over  to  the  Jersey 
shore,  and  recalled  for  them  the  morning,  now  more  than 
a  half-year  ago,  when  another  brown  ferryboat  had  served 
as  their  meeting-place. 

"The  horse — oh,  do  you  remember  the  horse.?"  she 
cried.     "Pickles!'* 

"And  caramels!" 

"And  gulls '' 


THE  STORM  311 

"And,  all  on  a  wintry  morning,  came  'spring-wind  like 
a  dancing  psaltress.'  "  And  he  quoted  the  lines,  telling 
her  how  she  had  "exercised  such  magic  as  to  call  Brown- 
ing back  to  life,  which  is  going  some,'*  in  his  irreverent 
modernity. 

The  air  was  breathlessly  still,  even  on  the  river,  but 
not  a  oloud  was  to  be  seen  now.  "To  think  that  I  was 
afraid  of  the  weather!"  Bee  laughed  at  herself,  and, 
exulting  in  the  wonder  of  the  sunny  day,  they  landed 
and  began  their  trolley  ascent  of  the  Palisades. 

"Let's  get  away  from  the  beaten  path  and  the  mad- 
ding crowd,"  Philip  proposed  at  the  top,  and  with  that 
they  broke  into  the  woods,  and  the  world  was  lost. 

The  green  was  deep,  and  through  it  they  could  now 
and  then  catch  far-below  glimpses  of  the  light-speckled 
water.  At  moments  they  would  see  the  whole  breadth 
of  the  river  spreading  to  the  New  York  shore,  littered 
with  craft — tugs,  barges,  a  long  excursion  boat,  small 
pleasure  boats,  a  destroyer.  Again  the  trees  would  be 
drawn  like  a  curtain,  and  they  would  know  the  river's 
presence  only  by  the  distant  dg-dg-dg-dg  of  a  motor 
boat's  throb.  Gradually,  as  they  zigzagged  northward, 
the  river  grew  farther  below;  when  they  approached  the 
Palisades'  edge,  it  was  to  look  off  from  the  pinnacle  of 
some  sheer  cliff  abutting  at  what  seemed  mountain  height. 
These  cliffs  became  more  barren,  more  formidable;  th^ 
trees  that  clung  to  them  were  like  terrified  living  crea^ 
tures  dizzily  awaiting  their  fall. 

"Ugh!  Let's  get  away  from  the  edge!"  shivered  Bee. 
"This  is  as  scarey  as  our  western  mountains."  Again 
she  shivered.     "Philip,  it's  getting  dark,  too!     There's 


312   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

something  queer  about  this  still  air.  I  believe,  after  all, 
a  storm  is  brewing." 

"Then  we'll  find  shelter.  We're  really  not  far  from 
habitation  at  any  point,  although  the  woods  seem  so 
isolated.     You're  nervous,  Bee." 

"Thunderstorms  always  frighten  me.  It's  not  so  much 
the  storm  itself  that  I  mind,  as  it  is  that  sense  of  fore- 
boding it  brings — ^I  feel  that  some  dreadful  thing  is 
going  to  happen.  I  never  saw  a  thunderstorm  in  Cali- 
fornia." 

**Little  pagan!  What  a  beauty-drenched  life  you  led, 
in  that  world  of  summer  and  flowers !  But  there's  noth- 
ing to  fear,  my  child;  it's  all  a  case  of  nerves.  WTiat 
you  have  been   through  would  account   for   anything." 

For  there  was  no  detail  of  her  experience  in  discover- 
ing her  father  which  Philip  had  not  heard;  that  it  had 
been  intolerable  until  she  could  tell  him  was  perhaps  the 
supreme  proof  of  what  she  thought  of  as  "his  being  /i^." 
She  would  always  suffer  torments  until  she  could  tell 
him  everything,  happy  or  terrible ;  and  the  knowledge  that 
he  would  always  exactly  understand  was  a  thought  that 
opened  like  a  harbour  to  her   stormy  tossing. 

"You  haven't  told  me  all  about  the  perfected  arrange- 
ments for  the  wonderful  debut,"  he  reminded  her  now, 
and  the  cloud  passed. 

There  was  much  to  tell,  for  this  was  their  first  long 
talk  for  a  fortnight.  Actually,  the  plan  was  working 
out  to  perfection,  incredible  as  it  seemed.  Helen  did 
not  show  a  sign  of  suspicion. 

"Tlie  rehearsals  were  w^hat  stumped  me.  If  aU  those 
people  who  play  the  Indian  roles   should  see  me   once, 


THE  STORM  313 

the  cat  would  be  out  of  the  bag.  But  an  understudy 
takes  my  part  at  rehearsals,  and  meanwhile,  the  director 
is  to  train  me  privately.  A  few  lessons  will  do  it — 
I  can  slip  away  to  him  and  Mrs.  Van  Nuys,  at  her  cot- 
tage in  Eagle's  Eyrie  Park.  She  is  getting  up  the  whole 
affair,  and  only  one  or  two  others  are  in  the  secret. 
I'd  never  have  managed,  if  I  hadn't  impressed  Cousin 
Ress  and  Mr.  McNab  into  service.  They've  been  dar- 
lings." 

The  masculine  expression,  to  a  more  practiced  femi- 
nine eye,  might  have  indicated  dissatisfaction  in  hearing 
Mr.  McNab  called  by  this  endearing  epithet;  however: 
"Just  how  are  they  working  it?"  Philip  inquired  with 
interest. 

"Well,  as  you  know,  I  asked  each  one  privately  to 
conspire  with  me,  and  they  more  than  promised.  I  think, 
to  tell  the  truth,"  reflected  Bee  aloud,  "they  rather 
enjoy  the  joke  on  Helen." 

"Doubtless." 

"Cousin  Ress  is  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Van  Nuys,  you  see, 
so  she  could  explain  my  whole  situation,  my  reason  for 
acting  secretly,  and  enlist  her  sympathy.  And  of  course 
we  all  realise  how  proud  and  glad  Helen  will  be,"  she 
insisted,  "when  she  sees  my  triumph.  Think  of  it — never 
a  suspicion — and  suddenly  she  will  realise  that  it  is  her 
own  daughter  who  is  the   star  of  the  occasion!" 

Bee  was  silent  after  this.  Whether,  in  her  deepest 
thoughts,  there  were  misgivings ;  whether  she  failed  to 
find  joy  in  the  prospect  of  Helen's  delight,  she  perhaps 
did  not  know  herself. 

"As  for  Mr.  McNab,"  she  went  on,  at  length,  "he  made 


314   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

the  whole  plan  possible  by  getting  Helen  to  change  her 
vacation  from  July  to  August.  The  pageant  was  set 
for  the  last  week  of  summer,  and  that  was  an  obstacle 
that  I  couldn't  surmount.  But  he  invented  business 
reasons  for  the  change,  and — there  we  were.  I'm  afraid 
it  upset  some  of  his  arrangements  a  great  deal  more 
than  he  would  admit,  but  he  insisted — 'Nothing  too  much 
trouble  if  it  boosts  the  show,  not  on  your  life !'  "  Bee 
flawlessly  imitated  Mr.  McNab's  rotund  and  genial  man- 
ner. "He  was  a  perfect  dear  about  it  all,"  she  con- 
tinued, naively  unconscious  of  the  very  wry  face  that 
her  companion  was  struggling  to  conceal. 


The  faraway  shriek  of  an  interurban  trolley  car  roused 
Bee  to  the  thought  of  getting  home. 

"Surely  we  had  better  be  starting  soon,  Phil,  if  we're 
to  walk  back  the  way  we  came." 

But  they  lingered  wistfully,  loath  to  see  the  after- 
noon slipping  through  their  fingers.  Procrastinating, 
they  watched  a  great  brown  hawk  circling  above  the 
water;  they  listened  to  a  shrill  tune  piped  up  to  them 
from  an  excursion  boat. 

"Si-ilver  threads  among  the  go-old.** 

"Not  yet  awhile,  my  friend,"  Philip  debonairly  ad- 
dressed the  distant  musician.  "Silver  threads  don't 
frighten  us."  His  eyes  rested  upon  the  gold  escaping 
under  Bee's  hat-brim. 

"But  some  day  we  shall  both  be  snowy  and  dodder- 


THE  STORM  315 

ing!"  she  laughed,  as  though,  for  all  her  jesting  words, 
that  were  a  quite  impossible  future. 

And  so  they  made  talk,  and  lingered,  clinging  with 
an  undermining  dread  to  these  last  minutes  of  this  last 
walk.  But :  **We  imust  start !"  sighed  Bequita,  and  faced 
determinedly  homeward  at  last. 

At  that  instant  the  bushes  parted  with  a  crashing 
sound,  and  forth  upon  them  rushed  a  tall,  powerfully 
built  man,  villainous  of  aspect,  and  strangely  garbed  in 
a  costume  of  some  century  and  a  half  ago. 

Bee's  voice  started  to  scream,  then  turned  into  a  peal- 
ing laugh,  as  a  red-coated  British  officer  and  a  Conti- 
nental in  cocked  hat  sprang  forth  to  meet  the  villain, 
followed  by  a  puffing,  portly  gentleman  in  modem  garb 
and  a  temper. 

"What  the  h — '  are  we  going  to  do?"  demanded  the 
portly  gentleman.  "Miss  Mannerly's  sprained  her  ankle 
and  she  can't  take  a  step,  and  here  we  are  with  the  sun 
nearly  gone  and  that  picture  due!"  He  gave  vent  to 
his  disappointment  in  terms  not  intended  for  a  lady's 
ear.  Catching  sight  of  Bee,  he  closed  his  mouth  like 
a  trap,  then  apologised. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — ^but  we're  up  against  it,  and  I 
guess  my  language  was  getting  pretty  hot.  You  see," 
he  explained  to  the  highly  interested  observers,  "this 
picture  has  to  be  rushed  through  to-day.  {^Jamce*s  Re- 
venge,  a  story  of  Revolutionary  days,  and  it's  a  winner, 
believe  me, )  And  now  the  star's  had  an  accident."  With 
that  he  caught  his  breath ;  he  feU  to  staring  at  Bee. 

"Say — do  you  know — look  here,  boys!  Ain't  this 
lady  the  dead  ringer  for  Marian  Mannerly?    Look  here! 


316   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Oh,  say,  what  do  you  know  about  tJuit "  He  stam- 
mered. 

He  vanished,  and  reappeared  with  a  rush,  carrying  a 
woman's  scarlet  cape.  Puffing,  purple  with  haste  and 
excitement,  he  flung  it  around  Bee's  shoulders. 

"Janice  to  the  life!  Now,  let  your  hair  down — ^it's 
got  to  hang  loose  and  blow  when  you  run — ^here  are  her 
slippers — all  you  have  to  do,  Miss,  is  to  run  lickety-split 
while  this  chap  here  runs  after  you — ^he's  one  o'  the 
Pine  Robbers,  Tory  agents  they  were — ^he's  going  to  stab 
you  because  you're  onto  his  secret.  Then  you  fall  on 
your  knees — up  rushes  Captain  Perkins,  here,  also  Cap- 
tain Montague "  Puffing  furiously,  the  apoplectic  di- 
rector of  the  moving-picture  had  already  wrapped  Bee 
in  the  enveloping  scarlet  cloak 

"Oh,  but  the  young  lady  can't  think  of  it !  Sorry,  but 
it's  quite  impossible!"  Philip  was  interrupting  authori- 
tatively, but  Bee,  radiant,  thrust  his  protests  aside. 

"Of  course  I  can!  Why,  it  will  be  one  of  the  most 
thrilling  adventures  of  my  life!"  She  was  jumping  into 
the  quaint  slippers,  tearing  out  hairpins,  letting  down 
the  long  light  hair,  "exactly  like  Miss  Mannerly's!"  the 
actors  all  cried,  adding  the  assurance  that  ^*the  face 
wouldn't  show  much.''  Philip's  protests  were  carried 
completely  off  their  feet. 

Hurried  by  the  photographer,  who  was  hastily  sum- 
moned, and  the  panting  director  who  kept  shouting  to 
everybody,  even  the  escaping  sun,  the  play  began.  After 
one  swift  rehearsal,  Bee  was  pronounced  ready  to  make 
her  run  for  life. 

It  was  as  thrilling,  she  told  Philip  later,  as  though  she 


THE  STORM  317 

had  really  felt  the  Pine  Robber's  knife  descending.  How 
she  ran!  Her  long  hair  blew  out  behind,  the  cloak  flew 
with  her  like  her  own  terrified  wings,  the  villain  pur- 
sued, knife  flashing.  She  dropped  to  her  knees — ^up 
rushed  both  British  and  American  heroes,  as  they  had 
nobly  pledged  themselves  to  do 

A  flash  and  a  crash  broke  terribly  through  the  woods. 
J'he   deluge   came. 

"Get  it?"  gasped  the  agonised  director. 

"Yep,"  replied  the  photographer,  and  a  long-pent 
breath  of  relief  heaved  through  the  company. 

They  all  fled  to  shelter  now,  and  huddled  under  trees. 
"Nothing  to  do  but  strike  out  for  the  trolley,"  the 
director  said.  "I  sent  the  motor-car  on  ahead  with  Miss 
Mannerly.  .  Sorry  I  can't  off^er  you  a  ride  home,  after 
the  way  you've  saved  us,"  he  regretted  to  Bee.  "Best  I 
can  do  is  to  offer  you  our  camp.  Wife  and  I  have  a 
little  place  over  here — gives  us  an  outing  now  and  then 
while  I'm  on  the  job.  Make  yourselves  at  home,  and 
use  whatever  you  can  find." 

The  two  welcomed  his  offer,  there  being  no  sign  of 
a  lull  in  the  storm,  and,  as  it  was  time  for  the  trolley- 
car,  and  the  moving-picture  people  were  obliged  to  take 
it,  Philip  and  Bee  refused  to  permit  him  to  escort  them 
to  the  cabin.  They  would  find  it  easily — ^no,  indeed.  Bee 
would  not  think  of  letting  the  director  mail  her  a  check 
— it  had  all  been  great  sport  to  her — yes,  Philip  would 
return  the  cabin's  key  next  day — another  terrific  thun- 
derclap, and  the  parties  separated  without  further  talk. 
Phil  seized  Bee's  arm,  hurrying  her  through  the  woods 


318  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

and  into  the  cosy  cabin,  while  the  others  set  out  for  their 
long,  drenching  walk  over  to  the  trolley  track. 

Safely  housed  at  last,  the  two  stood  and  peered  about 
through  the  dusk.  The  cabin  consisted  of  one  large 
room  with  a  wide  fireplace  built  of  stone.  Dim  objects 
loomed :  Philip's  matches,  and  the  candle  which  he  eventu- 
ally found,  revealed  these  as  comfortable  chairs,  a  broad 
couch  before  the  fireplace,  a  table,  and  an  oil  cook-stove. 
Gaudy  cushions  littered  the  couch,  a  multitude  of  mov- 
ing-picture performers  smiled  and  strutted  and  struck 
poses  upon  the  walls.  Altogether,  despite  the  lack  of 
taste  in  furnishing,  a  warmth  of  hospitality  glowed  toward 
them. 

"Can't  you  see  liis  wife  in  that  row  of  saucepans?" 
cried  Bee.  "Fat,  and  motherly,  and  petting  all  the  young 
actors  and  actresses." 

"They  probably  live  in  a  duplex  apartment  on  River- 
side Drive,  and  never  know  true  bliss  until  they  cuddle 
down  here  for  a  week,  and  recall  with  happiness  the 
days  when  they  didn't  have  a  fat  salary  to  spend,  while 
he  gets  oif  his  coat  and  lights  his  pipe,"  Philip  went  on 
with  her  sketch. 

"And  she  bakes  a  pie  in  that  oven — such  a  pie!" 
Thus  they  were  conjuring  up  the  picture  of  their  host 
and  hostess,  when,  "Oh,  look!"  she  exclaimed,  for  the 
first  time  realising  her  costume.  "I'm  wearing  the  cloak 
still!     We  all  forgot  it  in  the  hubbub.'* 

"We  can  dry  it  by  the  fire."  Philip  was  kneeling, 
coaxing  the  logs  to  flame.  "And  leave  it  here,  along 
with  the  slippers,  which,  fortunately,  you  are  carrying." 


THE  STORM  319 

Bee  had  changed  them  for  her  own  shoes.  "I'll  leave 
word  where  they  are  when  I  return  the  key." 

But  Bee  stood  for  moments  without  removing  the  wet 
cloak.  It  clung  to  her  with  a  chilly  hold ;  not  sufficiently 
wet  to  have  darkened,  it  glowed  vividly  scarlet  as  she 
stood  beside  the  now-leaping  fire.  The  room  behind 
gloomed  dusky;  shadows  skulked,  lean  and  creeping,  in 
far  comers.  But  Bequita  stood  staring  at  the  scarlet 
cloak.  It  seemed  possessed  of  some  sinister  charm,  a 
spell  to  bind  her  senses.  ,  .  . 

The  scarlet  cloak  held  terror  and  fascination  at  the 
same  time.  It  suggested  dreadful  things  that  she  had 
read  and  heard;  things  unspeakable,  things  unthinkable. 
They  were  like  ghostly  presences;  like  the  disembodied 
forms  of  sins  long  dead,  sins  strange  to  her,  sins  of 
women  unknown  and  for  ages  forgotten.  With  a  shud- 
der she  turned  her  eyes  from  it.  .  *  • 


VI 


They  had  dined  frugally  but  with  enthusiasm  upon  the 
canned  Italian  spaghetti  found  in  the  larder  and  the 
cake  of  chocolate  found  in  Philip's  pocket.  So  far,  ex- 
citement had  carried  Bee.  But  now  that  they  settled 
down  before  the  fire,  listening  to  the  ever-renewed  crash- 
ings  and  lashings  of  the  storm,  silence  fell;  and,  with  it, 
dusky  fears,  like  a  night  gathering  about  her  spirit. 

Watching  the  flames,  these  fears  gathered  more  and 
more  thickly  with  the  passing  minutes.  What  if  the 
storm  failed  to  detain  Helen?  they  nagged.  Very  likely 
she  had  returned  to  the  apartment  in  time  for  dinner. 


320   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Bee  saw  her  growing  alarm  as  she  waited,  pictured  her 
going  to  the  telephone,  calling  Cousin  Ress,  Adelaide 
Matcham,  other  friends.  What  would  Helen  do  then? 
What  would  she  say?  Most  dreadful  of  all,  what  would 
she  think? 

A  panic  seized  Bee,  and  she  rose  abruptly.  "Philip, 
Philip,  you  Trmst  take  me  to  the  car!  Helen  is  almost 
sure  to  be  at  home.  You  must,  you  must — if  you  won't, 
I'll  have  to  go  alone.     Philip,  please — right  away " 

Her  pantings  were  half  sobs.  Astonished,  he  laid  a 
quieting  hand  upon  hers. 

"Bee,  you  can't  go  now,  child!  It  would  be  the  dick- 
ens of  a  risk.  You'd  almost  certainly  be  ill  after  a 
long  trip  home  in  clothing  drenched  through.  I  can't  let 
you " 

In  fresh  panic  she  tried  to  snatch  away  her  hand. 
"Let  me  go,  you've  no  right  to  keep  me,  let  me  go,  Philip 
Oliver,  let  me  gol"  she  was  crying  hysterically. 

He  drew  her  into  the  shelter  of  his  arm.  Here  was 
refuge.  He  piled  up  cushions  behind  her  shoulders.  His 
brown  cheek  brushed  her  pale  one  as,  side  by  side,  they 
stared  on  at  the  fire.  For  the  time  she  gave  way  to  the 
lull  of  it  all:  the  stillness  of  perfect  companionship,  a 
stillness  enhanced  by  the  drive  of  the  storm  without  and 
the  tiny  crashiggs  of  the  fire  within.  The  candle  had 
burned  out,  there  was  no  oil  to  fill  the  lamp.  Only  the 
fire  pierced  the  darkness.  Behind,  the  skulking  shad- 
ows, creeping  silently  in  their  far  comers ;  but  here,  vivid 
in  the  firelight 

It  had  caught  her  eyes  again,  had'  seized  upon  them 
in  their  flight,  dragged  them  back.     The  scarlet  cloak 


THE  STORM  321 

would  not  be  eluded.  Its  flaming  colour  held  her  with 
sinister  fascination;  it  terrified  her  with  its  innuendo  of 
things  unthinkable.  It  raised  ghosts.  Ghosts  of  sins 
long  dead,  of  unknown  women's  sins 

"Philip,  Philip,  take  me  away!     I'm  afraid!" 

He  turned  to  her.  He  dropped  his  arm  from  her,  and 
drew  away.     He  was  almost  harsh. 

"Bee,  you  look  as  if  you  were  afraid  of  TneT* 

She  fought  back  tears.  "No,  Philip,  no!  But  I'm 
frightened,  like  listening  to  a  ghost  story  even  though 
you  know  it's  only  a  story — don't  you  see.?  The  night, 
and  our  being  off  here  alone — the  things  it  seems  like — 
the  dreadful  stories  it  suggests.  How  can  I  make  you 
understand.?  It's  the  seeming  that  frightens  me,  that 
I  loathe — ^the  secrecy,  the  darkness  of  it  all — ^it's  like 
going  through  a  black  alley  with  wicked  faces  leering  at 
you " 

He  had  risen,  and  he  stood  before  her  with  his  hands 
defiantly  thrust  into  his  pockets;  defiant.  Bee  felt  toward 
all  the  opposing  forces  of  the  universe. 

"Then  why  don't  we  come  out  into  the  open?"  he 
demanded. 

He  had  asked  it  many  times  before;  he  had  urged, 
and  she  had  fairly  fled  from  the  urging;  but  something 
newly  roused  within  her  listened  now. 

"If  you,  the  real  you,  ever  turn  me  down,  I'll  quit.  But 
it  isn't  you.  It's  what  somebody  else  thinks  that  an- 
swers me  through  you.  You  don't  honestly  think  it  would 
be  wrong  to  take  matters  into  your  own  hands  and  marry 
me.     You're  letting  somebody  else  be  your  conscience." 

She   was    listening.      Strangely   his   words    seemed    to 


322   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

echo  that  warning  which  Vernon  had  uttered  so  signifi- 
cantly weeks  ago: 

"You've  got  to  learn  to  go  by  what  It  tells  you.  .  .  . 
You'll  never  know  right  from  wrong  so  long  as  you  let 
somebody  else  be  your  conscience." 

They  had  sunk  back  into  their  seats  before  the  fire, 
and,  side  by  side,  they  were  watching  the  flames  again. 

"I  think  I'm  all  mixed  up  about  right  and  wrong,"  slie 
said,  and  the  words  gave  vent  to  all  the  sorry  grop- 
ings  of  her  bewildered  spirit.  "Our  secret  meetings  have 
tortured  me — while  I'm  with  you  I'm  mostly  happy,  but 
when  I'm  alone  and  think  it  over,  it  seems  wicked.  VHien 
I  stop  thinking,  and  simply  feel,  it  all  seems  to  come 
right — as  if  a  nice,  elderly,  purry  voice  were  telling 
me  that  there  can't  be  any  wrong  in  such  a  great  true 
love  as  ours." 

The  rain  still  fell,  but  the  storm's  anger  had  died.  .  .  . 

"You've  got  to  learn  to  go  by  what  It  tells  you.  .  .  ." 

Again  she  recalled  the  landlady's  dismal  room,  the 
dying  day,  the  white-haired  wreck  of  a  man  from  whose 
eyes  the  boy  looked  forth — again  she  heard  the  voice, 
broken  but  full  of  charm: 

"By  what  It  teUs  you.  .  .  ." 

Suddenly  a  strange,  unforgettable  thing  occurred.  It 
filled  only  a  few  swift  instants;  no  one  but  Bee  knew 
of  it;  Philip  remained  gazing  into  the  fire.  And  yet  it 
was  always  to  remain  for  her  one  of  the  supreme  occur- 
rences of  a  lifetime. 

Afterwards  she  was  to  wonder  if  it  hadn't  all  been 
fancy.  But  at  that  moment  it  semed  as  though  the  broken 
figure  actually  stood  before  her ;  that  the  boyish  blue  eyes 


THE  STORM  323 

once  more  met  hers ;  that  he  spoke,  repeated  the  warning, 
smiled,  understanding  and  wanting  to  help.  .  .  . 

The  moment  had  passed.  Ages  of  stillness.  Only  still- 
ness, and  dying  rain,  and  dusk  interwoven  with  threads 
of  firelight.  And  to  Bequita,  the  crucial  hour ;  as  though 
being  led  to  the  forking  of  two  roads  she  had  seen  where 
each  led:  the  one  to  blind,  perilously  easy  slavery  of  the 
spirit,  the  other  to  hard-won  liberty.    And  she  chose. 

The  rain  had  died.  **I  think  we  can  go  now,"  Philip 
said,  rising. 

She  made  ready  and  they  set  out,  over  the  soaked 
ground,  between  trees  that  scattered  cold,  fragrant  drops 
upon  them.  Neither  spoke  until  just  before  the  car 
came.     Then  Bee,  self-contained  and  low-voiced,  said: 

"I'm  not  afraid  now.  Because  there  never  was  any- 
thing real  to  be  afraid  of,  only  ghosts,  and  if  you  don't 
go  into  dark  places  you  won't  see  ghosts.  And  I'm  go- 
ing to  come  out  into  the  open.  If  I  go  by  what  the 
thing  inside  tells  me,  I'll  know  that  I  haven't  done  wrong, 
and  I'm  ready  to  face  whatever  comes.  I  wonder," 
she  added  paradoxically,  "if  the  wrong  isn't  in  not  be- 
lieving what  you  really  do  believe?" 

She  had  passed  through  her  spiritual  conflict  and  had 
conquered  fear.  She  was  ready  to  battle  at  last  for  her  own 
conscience,  for  her  right  to  assert  the  truth  for  herself. 
But,  although  Bee  was  girded  for  the  issue,  the  hour 
for  that  issue  had  not  yet  arrived. 

Helen  had  been  detained  by  the  storm  and  wasi  still 
absent  when  her  daughter  reached  home. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
THE    SPIRIT   OF   THE   WATERFALL 


MANITO  SUMMIT  and  Eagle's  Eyrie  Parks 
were  a-hum  with  the  great  event.  It  was  the  end 
of  August,  and  the  famous  pageant,  to  which 
all  the  season  had  been  breathlessly  leading  up,  was  ready. 
From  cottages  and  hotels  people  thronged — people  who 
wore  delightful  clothes,  and  talked  in  stylish  voices,  and 
hub-bubbed  agreeably  in  the  pitch  of  well-bred  society. 

Helen  came  downstairs.  Below,  in  the  hotel  lounge, 
Cousin  Ress,  Mr.  McNab  and  Dr.  Aspden  awaited  her. 
They  had  all  "run  up"  for  the  week-end  to  witness  the 
far-heralded  performance;  the  day  had  turned  out  per- 
fect, and  now  they  were  all  congratulating  themselves 
smugly  on  their  luck,  and  giving  way  to  the  fiesta  spirit 
all  around. 

Miss  Clifton  led  off  with  Mr.  McNab.  Dr.  Aspden 
joined  Helen.     "And  the  daughter?"  he  politely  inquired. 

"Can't  we  start  without  our  young  chaperon?"  The 
imp  flashed  at  that  instant. 

The  imp,  in  fact,  showed  symptoms  of  especial  unruli- 
ness  to-day.  A  month  of  rest  had  made  Helen  fit  to  a 
degree;  the  fiesta  spirit  had  taken  hold  of  her;  and  now, 

324 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  WATERFALL      325 

after  a  month's  separation,  she  was  once  more  enjoying 
the  companionship  of  this  handsome,  distinguished,  de- 
voted friend,  who  had  never  possessed,  in  her  eyes,  a  seri- 
ous fault  except  his  fondness  for  frayed  scarfs  in  a  life 
of  busy  preoccupation — and  of  late  weeks,  for  some 
reason,  he  had  abandoned  these  for  the  most  perfect 
made-to-order  scarfs,  as  her  fastidious  shrewdness  de- 
tected. Yes,  to-day,  she  felt,  she  could  hardly  be  re- 
sponsible for  what  the  imp  might  do. 

"Surely  Miss  Bee  has  not  condemned  us  as  too  elderly 
for  playmates.?" 

The  Doctor  uttered  it  solicitously;  but  behind  the 
tone,  Helen  detected  a  boyish,  sneaking  hope — almost  a 
sigh  of  relief,  in  fact,  smothered  but  distinguishable. 
He  had  never  won  Bee's  friendship,  despite  persistent 
efforts,  and  her  attitude  toward  him  was  that  of  a  dis- 
approving chaperon. 

He  continued,  "We  can't  be  any  older  than  we  feel!" 

"That's  accepted  as  true  for  your  sex,  but,  by  the 
same  proverb,  a  woman  may  be  only  as  young  as  she 
looks !"  On  the  instant  she  wanted  to  recall  it,  as  shame- 
lessly bald;  but  he  merely  looked  the  flattering  rejoinder 
without  uttering  a  word,  thus  absolving  her  in  her  own 
eyes.  Mirrors,  indeed,  had  showed  her  that  day  all  that 
his  most  ardent  flatteries  could  have  declaimed — Klines  as 
long  and  slender  as  on  the  day  when  her  two-stepping 
had  snapped  a  provocative  whip  to  younger  passions; 
eyes  brilliant,  though  with  a  keener,  harder  brilliancy; 
costuming  far  more  seductive  in  its  mature  daring  and 
authority.  "I  am  power,  I  capture,  I  subdue  !'*  the  mir- 
ror had  proclaimed. 


326   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"Bee  has  joined  some  still  younger  friends,  and  is 
going  to  the  pageant  with  them,"  she  explained.  She, 
too,  was  conscious  of  a  certain  relief  in  this  fact.  It 
was  always  uncomfortable  to  stand  between  her  friend 
and  her  silently  disapprobative  daughter,  no  matter  how 
keenly  she  appreciated  the  humour  of  the  situation;  she 
had  accepted  Bee's  apologies  for  absence  so  readily  that 
she  had  barely  waited  to  hear  them.  This  arrangement 
made  fsr  comfort  and  pleasure  all  around;  she  had  con- 
gratulated herself.  And  now,  having  set  off  with  her 
tall  escort  in  gala  mood,  she  gave  way  to  it  completely. 
Her  daughter's  existence  was  almost  forgotten  for  the 
once.  Bee  had  gone  to  join  friends  in  Eagle's  Eyrie 
Park  where,  near  the  ravine,  the  performance  was  to  take 
place.  No  doubt  she  was  prowling  among  the  actors  at 
this  moment,  as  children  always  do,  occurred  to  Helen 
once  on  the  drive  over,  and  then  she  thought  of  Bee  no 
more. 

The  stage  was  a  bit  of  clearing  close  beside  a  ravine, 
the  woods  serving  as  stage-setting.  As  Dr.  Aspden. 
guided  her  to  a  seat  in  the  foremost  row  of  spectators, 
perfectly  placed  for  seeing  the  performance  at  its  best, 
Helen  felt  the  admiration  that  followed  her,  as  though 
it  had  been  an  utterance.  "This  thing  of  renewing  one's 
youth  shall  not  be  cornered  by  the  eagle  alone,"  observed 
Helen  Kent,  in  inner  colloquy  with  her  imp;  and  the 
imp  echoed,  "Not  by  the  eagle  alone !" 

And  now  the  drama  was  beginning.  Weird  Indian 
music  struck  up,  a  long  file  of  braves  advanced  slowly 
through  the  woods. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  WATERFALL      327 

"Clever  work!"  Dr.  Aspden  whispered,  as  the  opening 
scene  disclosed  itself. 

"This  is  perfect!"  Helen's  reply  murmured — a  reply 
that  vaguely  embraced  weather,  front  seat,  companion, 
music,  stage-setting,  actors,  and  her  own  gown.  Helen's 
earth  was  whirling  to  a  completely  harmonious  rhythm 
at  that  hour;  a  rhythm  which  moved  on  as  smoothly  as 
though  it  were  never  to  be  broken. 

Casually,  as  the  play  proceeded,  she  observed  several 
small  matters  which  at  the  time  bore  for  her  no  sig- 
nificance whatever.  Once  Miss  Clifton  left  the  group 
and  slipped  away — ^Helen  wondered  if  she  had  a  telegi*am 
— felt  reassured,  upon  that  lady's  return,  by  the  satisfac- 
tion which  sat  upon  the  plump  countenance.  Again, 
Helen's  eyes  roamed  in  desultory  fashion  toward  a  slender 
white  figure  apearing  for  a  moment  in  the  woods — as  she 
looked,  the  figure  disappeared.  .  .  . 

They  were  but  some  of  the  flotsam  and  jetsam 
thoughts  that  the  mind's  tide  flings  up  on  the  shore  and 
forsakes.  The  tide  of  Helen's  mind  was  really  concerned 
with  only  one  great  fused  delight:  the  delight  of  a  re- 
markably beautiful  spectacle  enjoyed  in  company  with 
the  one  person  who  could  completely  round  out  her 
pleasure.  The  splendour  of  colour  displayed  against  the 
sombre  forest  background — a  carnival  of  red,  purple, 
green,  blue,  yellow;  the  cadence  of  Indian  music  droning 
on,  rising,  dying,  blaring,  softening,  wailing ;  the  presence 
beside  her — all  wrought  upon  the  senses  to  intoxicate, 
to  conquer. 

And  so  Helen's  afternoon  glowed  on.     The  play  was 


328   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

drawing'  toward  its  great  scene,  where  thirst,  like  a 
pestilence,  descends  upon  the  tribe.  The  song  of  sorrow 
began : 

"Ha  go  wa  nah  u  na 

Ha  go  way  nah  u  na  ha  ha  ha  go  way" 

With  the  rest  of  the  audience,  Helen  sat  transfixed. 
There  was  a  hypnotic  spell  in  the  scene,  in  the  cadences 
rising,  mourning  away  down  the  aisles  of  that  primeval 
forest. 

"This  is  ripping!"  she  heard  Dr.  Aspden's  murmured 
enthusiasm  beside  her.     And, 

"Ripping!"  echoed  Helen. 


n 


Bee,  meanwhile,  waited  in  a  cottage  near  by. 

Her  hour  was  almost  here.  It  was  to  be  the  hour  for 
which  all  the  artist  soul  of  her  had  bided;  the  hour  for 
which  body  and  brain  and  will  had  toiled ;  the  hour  which 
was  to  open  to  her  the  gate  into  that  great  world  of 
consecrated  work  and  fame,  the  world  of  her  long  dreams. 

The  shadows  of  afternoon  deepened  among  the  pines, 
charging  them  with  mystery.  As  the  day  waned,  a 
hint  of  autumn  crept  in,  adding  to  the  sombre  spell  of 
the  haunted  woods.  Here  and  there  a  flaming  sword  was 
brandished  by  some  maple  or  oak;  already  the  raucous 
chirp  of  crickets,  the  rude  controversy  of  katydids  gave 
warning.  The  sulky  blaze  of  fire-weed,  the  still  sulkier 
of  Joe-Pye,  mingled  with  goldenrod  along  the  path.    The 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  WATERFALL      329 

year  hung  in  that  glowing,  breatliless  suspense  which 
is  as  exquisite  a  beauty  and  as  exquisite  a  pain  as  the 
last  days  on  earth  of  a  beloved. 

Bequita,  at  the  window,  gazed  forth  upon  it  all  in  the 
awe  and  exaltation  of  one  who  witnesses  a  noble  death. 
It  was  her  first  death-bed  watch;  the  seasons  of  her 
California  had  wrought  no  tragedies.  But  this  dying 
summer — she  felt  a  new,  a  poignant  agony  as  it  slipped 
from  her  grasp,  and  a  more  acute  sense  of  beauty  than 
she  had  ever  felt  in  beauty's  security.  The  day  and  her 
mood  flowed  back  and  forth  into  one  another,  merging 
like  waters.  There  was  the  stillness  of  exaltation  in  both  ; 
and  the  breathlessness  of  suspense. 

The  door  was  stealthily  opened.  "All  right,  child?'* 
whispered  Cousin  Ress. 

Bee  nodded. 

"Not  scared,  are  you?" 

Bee  did  not  reply  in  words;  but  her  eyes  must  have 
answered  as  they  met  the  other's  with  a  long,  full  gaze 
that  was  like  still  water.  At  that  hour  she  was  above 
fear;  she  stood  on  a  plane  where  the  excitement  of  ela- 
tion was  so  intense  that  it  stiUed  itself,  like  the  heart 
of  the  whirlpool. 

Miss  Clifton  took  a  rapid  survey  with  her  shrewd  little 
eyes — a  survey  that  included  every  detail  of  the  Wliite 
Maiden's  marvellously  wrought  costume  of  floating 
gauze  which  parted  upon  faintly  discerned  rainbow 
gleams,  the  willow  wand,  and  the  Maiden's  eyes  "large 
and  glowing  like  those  of  a  fawn  at  night,"  as  the  legend 
ran,  her  skin  "no  less  white  than  the  snow  in  winter," 


330   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

and  cheeks  "like  the  first  coming  of  the  sun  on  mornings 
when  the  com  is  ripe." 

"Quite  so,'*  Miss  Clifton  snapped  out  her  brisk  con- 
clusion. "You're  altogether  as  you  should  be.  In  fact, 
my  child,  you  are  doomed  to  success — and  may  the  Lord 
pity  you  in  the  tribulations  which  that  brings!  Now — 
it's  time  for  you  to  slip  out  to  your  place  in  the  woods, 
ready  for  your  entrance.  Good-bye — and  keep  your 
nerve!" 

But,  as  she  turned  to  go: 

"Cousin  Ress!'* 

"Well?" 

"Wliere  is  Helen?" 

"In  a  front  seat,  looking  perfectly  stunning  and  in  a 
mood  to  be  delighted  with  anything,  for  she's  got  that 
Doctor  dangling.  He's  a  fine  man,  and  I  wish  to  goodness 
she'd  drop  her  tommyrot  about  ^romantic  delusions'  and 
marry  him,  like  a  sensible  woman,  and  not  set  herself  up 
as  knowing  such  a  darned  sight  more  than  her  great- 
grandmother  Eve." 

Bee  was  grave.  "I  hope  she  will  be  happy  when  she 
sees  my  success.  I  wish  that  Helen  and  I  might — "  a 
wistful  shadow  crossed  her  face — "might  understand 
each  other  better  again.  If  only  the  old  days  could  come 
back!" 

Miss  Clifton  again  eyed  her  sharply.  "You're  not 
going  to  be  afraid  of  what  she  thinks,  are  you?" 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  any  longer,  except  of  being 
untrue  to  the  truth."  Bee  left  the  cryptic  little  phrase 
unexplained;  but  Miss  Clifton  read  finality  and  self-sure- 
ness  in  her  quiet  tone.    "I'm  ready  for — whatever  comes." 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  WATERFALL      331 
m 

Bee  waited  in  her  hiding-place  in  the  woods  behind 
the  stage.  Unseen  herself,  she  could  watch  actors  and 
audience.  Here,  almost  beside  her,  on  the  cleared  stretch 
of  ground  which  served  as  stage,  the  Indian  figures  moved 
back  and  forth  in  the  sombre  fire  of  the  setting  sun. 

Artist  brains  had  conceived  a  spectacle  of  rarest 
beauty,  and  lavish  purses  had  spared  nothing  to  carry 
it  out.  The  spirit  of  the  mountain  legend  had  been  cap- 
tured. At  that  point  of  the  story,  where  the  tribe, 
stricken  by  thirst,  made  a  plea  to  its  deity,  one  felt  the 
wild  appeal  of  such  worship  as  belongs  to  the  childhood 
of  a  race. 

Tlie  chant  of  suffering  and  prayer  mourned  in  strange 
cadence.  The  woods  took  up  the  moaning  and  echoed  it. 
The  Indian  women  and  children  lay  upon  the  ground, 
exhausted  by  thirst;  now  and  then  a  woman  would  raise 
her  head  and  feebly  join  in  the  chanted  prayer  which 
the  men  were  still  able  to  utter,  as  they  stood  with  arms 
raised  to  the  heavens,  their  figures  outlined  in  a  melan- 
choly picture,  like  drought-smitten  pines  against  the 
darkly  burning  sky.  The  acting  was  superb;  actors 
themselves  were  under  the  spell  of  the  scene's  illusion,  and 
one  watched  in  a  trance,  doubting  his  own  calendar,  here 
in  the  surroundings  where  just  such  a  scene  might  verily 
have  taken  place  in  the  forgotten  centuries. 

The  stage  was  met  at  the  rear  and  on  one  side  by 
woods ;  on  the  other  side  it  came  to  an  abrupt  end  at  the 
edge  of  the  ravine.  This  was  the  precipice,  a  sheer  drop 
of  rock  wall,  greenish  with  slimy  growth,  where  the  little 


332   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

wajterfall  was  wont  to  cascade  in  lithe  leaps  to  the 
boulders  at  the  foot. 

But  now  no  cascade  was  to  be  seen.  By  a  clever  bit 
of  trickery,  abetted  by  a  genuine  drought  which  had 
greatly  reduced  the  water's  volume,  the  small  stream  had 
been  dammed  back  and  temporarily  deflected  at  some 
distance  to  the  rear,  so  that  it  seemed  verily  to  have 
vanished  off  the  face  of  the  dry  earth.  Its  release  was 
to  be  so  timed  that  at  a  smiting  of  the  White  Maiden's 
wand  it  would  gush  forth  to  its  fall  over  the  rocks.  To 
the  minutest  detail  this  pretty  deception  had  been  worked 
out  so  that  not  a  slip  could  occur. 

Bee's  alert  eyes  noted  the  spot  where  her  wand  was 
to  strike  as  a  signal,  and  the  curtain  of  branches  behind 
which  she  was  to  vanish  at  the  water's  release.  Her 
eyes  travelled  on  to  the  audience.  No  figure  in  it  was 
discernible  from  where  she  stood ;  it  appeared  but  as  a 
mass  of  mingled  colours,  broken  by  the  dark  lines  of 
men's  garb. 

"Ha  una  ha  na  ha  ah," 

droned  the  chant.  One  of  the  braves  collapsed,  fell — 
another.  Their  dying  groans  rose,  desolate  echoes  of  the 
prayer  that  the  survivors  still  raised  to  a  merciless  deity. 

*'Na  sa  ha  nee  ga  ha  do  wayhe  ah '* 

Bee  was  lost  now  to  every  thought  save  the  reality  of 
the  entrancing  scene.  She  strained  forward,  listening 
for  a  moan  of  wind  in  the  forest,  which  was  to  be  her 
cue. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  WATERFALL      333 

*'Ha  u  na  ha  ah  ha '* 

A  weird  sound  rose.  It  was  the  cue.  The  moan  of 
wind  was  caught  up  by  the  actors,  and  it  pierced  the 
woods  like  a  choinis  of  lost  souls.  They  roused  to  join 
in  it,  where  they  lay  exhausted  and  dying,  as  if  it  were 
their  last  utterance  on  earth.  The  three  who  remained 
standing  raised  the  cry  to  a  shriek,  hands  uplifted,  and 
fell.  The  cry  died,  whining  slowly  to  silence.  It  seemed 
a  world  of  the  dead.  ... 

Bequita  raised  hands  that  were  thrilled  beyond  the 
weakness  of  trembling,  and  parted  the  leaves.  She  was 
conscious  that  a  shaft  of  light  sought  her  between  the 
pines ;  that,  as  she  moved  slowly  forward,  the  light  seized 
and  swept  her  all  at  once  into  full  view.  For  a  long 
pause  she  stood  motionless ;  the  blackening  woods,  the 
deathlike  forms,  were  background  for  the  vision  of  un- 
earthly light  that  she  presented.  She  saw  herself,  as 
though  she  stood  outside  and  looked  on:  she  knew  that 
her  supple  whiteness  of  limb,  her  gleam  of  draperies,  her 
floating  glory  of  hair  were  the  cause  of  that  sudden 
stop.  It  was  a  stop  that  she  felt  as  though  the  audience 
were  one  human  pulse  and  her  finger  were  upon  it.  It 
seemed  as  though  their  common  heart  ceased  to  beat,  their 
breath  to  come  and  go.  It  felt,  thought  Bee,  as  if  the 
last  trump  had  sounded,  and  i)eople  were  waiting  to  see 
what  would  happen.  .  .  . 

She  began,  now,  to  move  forward.  She  seemed  to  her- 
self to  be  gliding,  as  if  she  made  no  motion  to  propel 
herself  but  were  carried  by  a  greater  force,  as  wind  or 
water    are    carried.      She    approached    the    unconscious 


334<      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Indians;  she  gazed  down  upon  them  benignly.  At  that 
moment  the  rendering  of  this  myth  was  as  real  to  Bequita 
as  though  these  men,  women  and  children  were  in  fact 
Indians,  actually  perishing  of  thirst,  and  she  were  their 
sole  deliverer. 

Raising  her  wand,  the  White  Maiden  gently  waved  it. 
yhe  Indians'  eyes  opened,  a  vague  wonder  stole  into  their 
faces.  She  flung  her  arms  to  the  sky,  invoking  strength 
from  some  source  of  strengths  Then  her  arms  reached 
out  over  the  dying,  with  a  movement  that  suggested 
cherishing  wings;  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  the  Indians 
slowly,  feebly  rose.  Still  her  succouring  arms  reached 
forth  to  them.  Bequita  herself  was  so  charged  with  the 
sense  of  saving  these  people  in  their  extremity,  that  she 
(Conveyed  her  meaning  to  her  spectators  as  if  it  travelled 
directly  from  mind  to  mind.  Only  art  that  is  great 
enough  to  be  artless  can  rise  to  this  height;  only  when 
the  artist  is  so  transported  by  his  meaning  that  self 
becomes  non-existent,  does  he  reach  the  plane  where  the 
medium  of  expression  becomes  negligible,  the  direct  trans- 
mission of  thought  seems  to  transcend  expression. 

One  by  one,  at  her  gesture,  the  stricken  Indians  rose 
to  their  feet;  first  a  child,  staring  at  the  vision,  then 
another;  men  and  women  followed.  The  group  stood 
gazing  at  the  White  Maiden  as  though  heaven  had  de- 
scended to  earth. 

And  now  she  flung  off  the  spell  of  awe.  With  a  swing 
of  filmy  draperies  she  sprang  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 
A  moment  she  paused  there,  her  eyes  sweeping  the  audi- 
ence; still  no  individuals  detached  themselves  from  the 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  WATERFALL      335 

mass.  The  assembly  was  one  to  her — one  straining  ex- 
pectancy. 

Instinct  taught  her,  artist  that  she  was,  precisely  how 
long  to  hold  that  tension.  Her  arms  were  extended  mo- 
tionless, the  cloudy  white  floated  out  from  them.  Tlien, 
with  a  leap  as  light  as  the  tossing  of  water,  she  broke 
into  her  dance — the  dance  of  the  waterfall,  the  dance 
that  sparkled  and  frothed  and  tossed  and  tumbled  and 
foamed  and  twinkled  and  cascaded  and  splintered  into 
rainbows. 

To  Bequita  it  was  as  though  she  were  not  dancing  at 
all — something  within  her  was  what  danced,  the  soul  of 
the  waterfall  which  had  entered  her  soul.  She  felt  her- 
self the  Water;  she  seemed  to  be  frothing  over  rocks  into 
green,  deep  places ;  to  be  laughing  in  tinkles ;  to  be  break- 
ing on  the  rocks  into  a  thousand  glintings ;  to  be  tossing 
upward  in  foam.  And  in  the  midst  of  the  sheer  joy  of 
water  at  play,  she  was  conscious  still  of  that  deeper, 
more  solemn  joy:  of  delivering  a  stricken  people  at  the 
brink  of  death. 

On  foamed  the  dance.  The  dancer  hovered  on  the 
dizzy  brink  of  the  precipice ;  she  retreated  only  to  spring 
forward  again,  poising  on  the  rock  that  jutted  over  the 
gorge,  leaping  free  in  the  air  and  alighting  on  the  brink 
once  more.  She  seemed  as  unconscious  of  peril  as  the 
darning-needle  that  alighted  beside  her;  as  sure  that  the 
air  would  support  her.  Now  she  bent  forward,  covering 
her  head  with  her  white  draperies,  imitating  the  foaming 
fall ;  she  drooped  far  over  the  steepest  rocks,  hung  there 
in  limp  grace.  Now  she  tossed  herself  erect  again,  and 
pirouetted  on  the  ledge.     She  was  no  more  conscious  of 


336   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

technique  than  a  waterfall  itself.  She  was  like  one  of  the 
elements,  swayed  only  by  a  vast  Thouglit.  Dimly  she 
knew  this;  not  explicitly,  but  in  some  cellar  of  her  con- 
sciousness. She  knew,  too,  that  this  dance  was  supreme, 
that  she  had  never  before  reached  such  height  of  beauty 
in  her  art's  expression,  perhaps  never  again  would  reach 
it. 

The  taut  silence  intensified  with  the  minutes.  In  it, 
Bequita  could  feel  her  conquest.  She  knew  that  she  was 
dancing  as  these  people  had  never  seen  anyone  dance 
before;  that  they  were  strung  to  a  pitch  of  dumb  wonder 
which  spelled  her  complete  triumph.  Behind  her,  the 
Indians  were  pressing  closer;  even  they,  her  fellow-mum- 
mers, shared  the  astonishment  and  forgot  feigned  wonder 
in  genuine. 

With  a  final  spring  and  a  movement  of  tossing  foam 
which  released  rainbow  flashes,  the  dance  reached  its 
height  and  stopped  abruptly.  In  the  absolute  stillness 
the  White  Maiden  paused  on  the  ledge.  There  was  to 
be  a  long-drawn  moment  of  suspense,  then  the  smiting 
of  the  rock,  the  gushing  forth  of  the  stream,  the  grand 
finale  of  praises  from  a  delivered  people,  the  Maiden's 
vanishing  in  the  forest. 

She  paused.  Every  nerve  of  her  body  was  tuned  to 
perfect  pitch;  she  could  feel  to  a  nicety  the  hold  she  had 
upon  that  audience's  tension,  the  instant  at  which  she 
must  break  it  with  the  great  climax.  She  stood  poised 
on  the  lightest  tiptoe,  her  hand  holding  forth  the  willow 
wand — — ' 

She  faced  her  spectators.  The  mass  of  blended 
colours  met  her  eye — ^but  now,  for  the  first  time,  an  in- 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  WATERFALL      337 

dividual  figure  stood  out  as  a  strong  bar  of  light  struck 
it.  The  figure  seemed  to  Bee's  eyes  to  detach  itself  from 
the  mass  until  it  was  the  only  thing  seen.  It  was  stand- 
ing; it  was  in  the  front  row,  and  had  stepped  a  trifle  in 
advance  of  the  others;  it  leaned  forward  intently,  eyes 
riveted  upon  the  dancer.  .  .  . 

And  now  Bee  met  those  eyes.  Even  at  that  distance, 
not  a  shading  of  their  jetty  glance  failed  to  reach  her. 
Narrowed  to  mere  flashing  lines,  they  seemed  to  Bee  at 
that  instant  more  terrible  than  she  had  ever  dreamed 
they  could  be.  At  the  instant  when,  poising  on  the  edge 
of  the  precipice,  she  met  them,  she  felt  her  beating  heart 
turn  to  ice  and  go  thumping  down  within  her.  .  .  . 

For  a  sick  moment  she  struggled  to  recover.  Her 
whole  body  was  numb ;  her  will  was  like  her  heart,  merely 
a  lump  of  ice,  with  no  power  left  to  direct  her  actions. 
She  tried  to  drag  her  eyes  away  from  those  dreadful  ones, 
and  was  unable  to  release  them.  She  thought,  flittingly, 
of  tales  of  evil  spells.  .  .  .  Her  arm  made  a  dull  reach 
forward,  automatically  obeying  its  training,  and  with  a 
lifeless  stroke  she  smote  the  rock,  and  was  aware  of  the 
sudden  gush  of  the  fettered  water.  With  a  surge  it 
leaped  forward,  cries  of  joy  broke  from  the  Indians;  but 
still  her  eyes  were  held  prisoner  by  those  other  eyes.  .  .  . 
She  made  a  clumsy  step  backward  as  the  water  burst 
forth ;  she  was  losing  her  power  of  balance,  overwhelmed 
as  she  was.  She  knew  only  that  her  step  backward 
seemed  at  a  loss  for  foothold,  that  it  groped  behind  her, 
stumbled.  In  the  instant  when  her  balance  wavered 
on  the  edge  of  the  precipice — ^when  she  saw,  yawning  like 
measureless  space,  that  sheer  pitch  of  slimy-green  rock 


338   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

below;  in  that  instant  life  and  death  hung  in  the  scales, 
and  a  life  and  death  no  more  of  the  body  than  the  spirit. 


IV 


Except  to  rise  to  a  standing  posture,  Helen  had  been 
rigid  since  Bee's  entrance.  She  had  not  felt  the  ques- 
tioning glances  that  Dr.  Aspden  had  cast  toward  her 
at  this  unexpected  dancer's  appearance;  she  had  known 
nothing  but  the  fact  of  that  appearance.  At  first,  as 
the  plot  had  broken  upon  her,  she  had  passed  into  rage 
like  a  trance.  She  had  been  bound  by  the  terrible  spell. 
Years  passed  before  her  in  the  minutes  of  Bee's  per- 
formance; she  saw  the  dancing  baby  in  a  California 
garden;  the  yellow-haired  child  pleading  for  lessons;  the 
girl  tingling  with  art's  urge;  later,  the  woman  of  defiant 
silence,  which  she  had  so  blindly  failed  to  interpret !  And 
at  last  before  her  eyes,  her  daughter,  her  flesh,  who  had 
secretly  defied  and  outwitted  her,  and  now  triumphed  in 
her  very  face.  .  .  . 

During  these  moments  her  impulse  of  anger  was  so 
strong  that  she  forgot  the  selflessness  of  her  motive  iit 
denying  Bee  a  career  of  art.  She  was  conscious  of  no 
definite  purpose  to  defeat  the  girl;  her  wrath  (which,  in 
truth,  was  more  at  her  own  blindness  than  at  Bee)  simply 
burned  through  her  eyes  like  a  conflagration  through 
windows;  and  she  was  aware  of  its  blazing  its  way  to 
Bee,  as  though  she  stood  watching  an  unchecked  fire 
speed  toward  its  victim.  She  exerted  no  volition  to  drive 
the  fire;  it  followed  its  own  course.     And  she  knew  when 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  WATERFALL      339 

it  reached  the  victim.  She  saw  the  fright  leap  into 
Bequita's  eyes,  saw  her  swerv-e,  weaken.  .  .   . 

And  at  that  moment  Helen  passed  from  one  trance 
into  another;  from  that  of  blind  rage  into  that  of  blind 
terror. 

The  girl  was  stumbling — she  was  losing  her  balance! 
And  there,  on  the  very  edge  of  the  gorge !  It  had  taken 
the  nicest  equilibrium  to  dance  in  that  perilous  position, 
and  now  that  she  was  plainly  bewildered  ... 

Dumb  with  fright,  Helen  could  not  look  at  the  swaying 
figure.  Her  eyes  riveted  themselves  upon  a  white  birch, 
upon  the  initials  "A.  C."  and  "J.  S.  M."  carved  within 
a  heart  upon  its  maiden  flesh.  The  letters  were  mean- 
ingless— only  the  knife-scribblings  of  some  vanished  young 
vandals — ^but  in  her  hypnosis  they  impressed  themselves 
upon  her  brain  as  though  they  had  been  carved  there, 
instead  of  upon  the  tree.  Helen  was  never  while  she 
lived  to  forget  those  letters— "A.  C."  and  "J.  S.  M."— 
carved  black,  and  girdled  by  a  blacker  heart  upon  the 
ravished  white  birch.  They  gave  back  stare  for  stare 
while  she  waited;  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  breath,  her 
pulse,  had  stopped  completely;  that  heaven  and  earth, 
too,  were  stunned  to  silence,  and  held  their  breath.  She 
knew  only  one  thing:  that,  impotent,  she  waited. 


With  the  uncanny  swiftness,  the  instantaneous 
thought-flashing  of  such  moments,  Bequita's  mind  took 
in  all  that  the  situation  meant.  It  was  the  crucial  mo- 
ment of  Helen's  dominion  over  her.     Give  way  utterly 


340   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

to  those  terrif jing  eyes,  and  catastrophe  awaited — at 
least  the  collapse  and  fiasco  of  what  might  have  been 
her  artistic  triumph;  perhaps  a  fall  to  death,  over- 
whelmed as  she  was  by  fright.  Or — throw  off  the  eyes' 
power  to  terrify — defy  them — rally  her  forces,  her  poise 
— and  something  told  Bee  that  their  power  would  be 
vanquished  for  all  time. 

Still  that  hideous  bewilderment,  that  sense  of  physical 
collapse — a  complete  giving-way.  And  the  slimy  cliff — 
infinite,  yawning  space.  .  .  . 

"You've  got  to  learn  to  go  by  what  It  tells  you.  .   .   .'* 

How  strangely  actual  the  remembered  voice  seemed, 
the  gravely  shadowed  blue  eyes.  .  .  • 

The  green,  yawning  rocks.  .  .  . 

"What  It  tells  you.  .  .  ." 

A  deep  breath  seemed  unclenching  her  tight  body,  as 
if  breathed  into  her  lungs  by  some  gentle,  relaxing  power. 
She  inhaled  it  fully.  Her  body  drew  itself  erect  with 
slowly  recovered  ease;  as  gracefully  as  that  of  a  wind- 
bent  tree  her  balance  was  recovered. 

The  Indians'  song  of  praise  rang  loudly. 

She  waited,  smiling  now  as  these  actors  pressed  for- 
ward to  drink.  So  swiftly  had  her  crisis  passed  that 
the  break  in  her  dance  had  been  barely  noticed  by  most 
of  the  spectators.  In  another  second  she  had  gathered 
her  draperies  for  the  sweeping  fling  of  the  dance's  brief 
finale;  a  flash,  a  triumphant  whirl  of  rainbow  shimmers, 
dizzying  movements  that  were  all  light,  joy,  victory — and 
the  Maiden  vanished  into  the  forest. 

She  was  deeply  hidden  in  trees  when  the  storm  of  ap- 
plause burst.     Even  there  it  was  deafening. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  WATERFALL      341 

"Come,  come  on  out.  Miss  Kent,  they  want  you,  they've 
got  to  have  you!  YouVe  scored — it's  the  biggest  thing 
anybody's  seen  for  many  a  day!" 

"Listen  to  that!  They've  gone  crazy!  YouVe  got 
to  come  out " 

"They'll  storm  the  place  if  you  don't " 


Actors,  managers,  a  horde,  it  seemed  to  Bee,  were  try- 
ing to  draw  her  forth  to  meet  this  thunderstorm  of  ap- 
plause. But  the  Maiden,  with  "eyes  large  and  glowing 
like  those  of  a  fawn  at  night,"  fled  like  the  fawn  of  tradi- 
tion. The  forest  received  her,  enfolded  her;  like  the 
Spirit  Maiden  of  the  legend,  she  had  appeared,  en- 
thralled men,  and  vanished  from  mortal  sight.  Far 
within  the  dusk  of  the  trees  she  heard  the  calls  and  clap- 
ping, all  the  mad  turmoil  that  crowned  her  success  in 
art.  But  her  deeper  victory  was  unknown  to  those  who 
hailed  her. 


PART  FOUR 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
DEAD  LEAVES 


HERE^S  a  new  tonic  that  Dr.  Aspden  has  sent  for 
you,  dear,"  Helen  said  with  forced  cheerful- 
ness, entering  the  little  blue  room  that  looked 
out  upon  the  autumn  river.  "Now  I'm  sure  you'll  soon 
be  yourself  again!" 

But  the  face  that  Bee  turned  upon  the  pillow  was 
white  and  pinched.  "I  don't  think  the  tonic  matters," 
she  responded;  her  voice  sagged,  lifeless.  Not  a  ray  of 
the  old  Bee  glowed  in  eye  or  face  or  voice  or  motion. 
Something  deeper  than  physical  weakness  showed  here: 
there  was  an  apathy,  a  weary  hopelessness,  that  bespoke 
a  sick  soul. 

For  Bee  had  been  very  ill.  At  last  the  crash  had  come ; 
months  of  the  straining  effort  toward  art's  success;  the 
unnatural  excitement  of  her  relations  with  Philip  and 
the  mental  turmoil  they  had  caused;  the  final  supreme 
triumph  as  a  dancer,  bought  at  such  a  cost  to  her  nervous 
endurance — altogether,  the  crash  was  inevitable.  She 
had  broken  completely,  and  now  for  long  weeks  had  lain 
dragging  back  to  a  life  that  she  did  not  want. 

For  what  was  there  to  get  well  for.'^  her  misery  kept 

345 


Sm      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

asking.  Not  in  all  these  weeks,  since  she  had  been 
brought  home  from  the  mountains,  had  a  word  come 
from  Philip.  What  did  it  mean,  this  silence  that  hung 
like  death?  During  her  absence  from  town  it  had  been 
understood  that  he  was  not  to  write,  for  the  thought 
of  continuing  a  clandestine  correspondence  had  become 
loathsome  to  her,  and  the  time  to  "tell"  had  not  then 
been  ripe.  But,  having  laid  aside  secrecy  at  last,  she 
had  written  to  him  three  times,  propped  up  and  strug- 
gling with  a  pencil  that  made  wobbly  characters  in  her 
poor  wobbly  hand.  She  had  given  the  letters  to  Helen 
to  post,  and,  when  at  first  there  had  been  no  reply,  had 
maide  sure  that  nothing  had  happened  to  Philip  by 
getting  Russian  Anna  to  telephone  to  his  landlady  and 
inquire.  And  days,  more  days,  days  that  mounted  into 
weeks,  had  gone  by,  and  still  no  word!  She  realised 
fully,  at  last,  that  all  her  happiness  depended  upon  him ; 
that  her  life,  except  the  mere  existence  of  the  body,  lay 
in  his  hands  to  cherish  or  crush.  Hour  after  hour  she 
watched  the  wan  scattering  of  dead  leaves  beside  the 
river,  and  thought  of  her  hopes  as  being  like  them,  blown 
to  the  four  winds. 


At  first  Bee  had  lain  dangerously  ill.  Dr.  Aspden  had 
fought  for  her  life  and  health  as  though  she  had  been 
his  own. 

"I  used  to  think  you  were  horrid — ^wasn't  that  the 
funniest  thing.?"  she  had  observed  to  him  one  day,  and 
then  they  had  shaken  hands  and  laughed  over  it.     Why, 


DEAD  LEAVES  347 

he  was  one  of  the  friends  that  she  classified  as  "very 
special,"  nowadays.  So  growlj  at  times — she  had  always 
liked  men  to  be  growly,  and  to  twinkle  behind  the  growli- 
ness! 

Helen  had  fought  at  the  bedside  night  and  day,  ignor- 
ing sleep,  fanning  the  spark  which  had  so  nearly  flickered 
out.  And  then  had  come  the  dreary  convalescence.  In 
it,  Bee  and  Helen  had  talked  quietly  and  at  length. 

The  story  of  Bittersweet  Alley  had  been  told  in  full — 
not  at  Helen's  solicitation,  for  she  had  put  no  questions, 
in  fact,  had  urged  that  the  matter  be  left  until  Bee's 
strength  returned.  But  there  had  been  a  chafing.  "I 
think  I'll  breathe  better  when  it's  told,"  Bee  had  sighed. 
"I'm  so  tired" — ^panting — "with  carrying  heavy  secrets 
so  far." 

The  confession  had  been  in  no  way  an  apology.  Cool 
and  level-eyed,  for  all  her  weakness,  she  had  made  that 
clear.  "My  dancing  was  not  wrong.  I've  had  time 
to  think  over  everything,  lying  here,  and  I  know  more 
than  ever  that  I  had  the  right  to  develop  my  gift — ^indeed, 
I  had  no  right  not  to — ^just  because  it  was  a  gift,  and 
I  was  meant  to  make  the  most  of  it.  But  there  was  a 
wrong  in  my  acting  secretly.  That  was  because"  (she 
had  met  Helen's  eyes  with  unflinching  steadiness)  "I  was 
afraid.  Cowardice  and  secrecy  are  wrong.  .  .  .  But  it's 
all  over  now."     She  had  fallen  back  wearily. 

"You  had  better  have  your  nap,'*  had  been  Helen's 
only  comment. 

A  week  later  Bee  had  said,  "I  didn't  finish  all  I  had 
to  tell  you  the  other  day,  Mother." 

It  was  one  of  Helen's  secret  pangs  that  she  often  heard 


348   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

the  name  in  these  days.  It  carried  always  a  sense  of 
distance,  a  lessening  of  that  close  bond  of  sisterhood 
which  formerly  had  been  the  joy  of  their  particular  re- 
lation.    But,  with  firm  cheerfulness,  she  replied: 

"Talk  away,  youngster,  if  you  think  you  had  better." 

Again  Bee  was  level-eyed  in  calm  fearlessness.  "It's 
not  that  this  thing  was  vrrong  in  itself,  any  more  than 
my  studying  dancing  was  wrong,"  she  proceeded  clearly. 
**It's  only  that  being  clandestine  about  it  was  wrong. 
But  somehow  I  got  into  it.  It  was  as  though  I  had 
strayed  into  a  dark  alley,  and  then  I  didn't  know  how 
to  turn  around  and  go  back.  It  never  was  like  me  to 
be  underhanded,  but  I  wonder,"  mused  Bee  aloud,  "whether 
most  people  don't,  sooner  or  later,  find  themselves  trapped 
into  doing  something  that  they  can't  believe  of  them- 
selves when  they  stand  off  and  look  it  over?  The  thing 
I'm  referring  to,"  she  resumed,  "is  my  secret  meeting, 
for  many  weeks,  with  Philip." 

Silence  met  it. 

"For  a  long  time  I  obeyed  you,"  ran  on  the  revelation. 
"But  after  I  realised  that  you — were  in  love  with  Dr. 
Aspden,"  pronounced  Bee,  hesitating  but  distinct,  "1 
didn't  care." 

She  sank  back.  She  was  physically  weary  and  mentally 
overwrought.     Helen  was  beside  her  in  an  instant. 

"Leave  it  all,  Bee,  till  you  are  well!"  She  was  kneel- 
ing, a  strong  arm  encircling  the  girl's  waist. 

But  Bee  struggled  on,  like  one  climbing  an  appalling 
mountain  and  compelled  to  reach  the  top. 

"No,  don't  stop  me,  please.  I  want  to  finish.  What 
I  want  to  say  is  this:  That,  since  I've  laid  aside  fear 


DEAD  LEAVES  349 

and  secrecy,  knowing  them  to  be  wrong,  I'm  going  on 
openly  hereafter.  I  love  Philip  and  he  loves  me,  and  I 
am  going  to  marry  him.  I  wish  you  might  agree  to  it. 
I'd  like  to  think  that  we  could  be  sisters  again,  in  the 
old  way."  Her  voice  was  wistful  at  that.  "But  if  we 
can't,  why  then,  I  must  go  on  alone." 

Again  she  paused,  fatigued  painfully;  but,  resolutely, 
she  finished. 

"I've  had  to  live  so  much  alone — that  is,  the  real  me. 
I  had  to  go  alone  to  my  Roof  to  get  acquainted  with  It. 
By  It,  I  mean  the  Thing  that  you  don't  believe  in. 
Vernon  and  I  know  about  It."  (The  tense  was  as  un- 
coiisciously  present  as  if  she  spoke  of  a  living  comrade.) 
"I  half  believed  before  that  there  was  Something;  and 
talking  with  him  made  me  sure.  It's  so  big  that  I  can't 
make  out  very  much  about  It  yet,  and  I  don't  thing  It's 
at  all  like  what  people  have  always  imagined — I  know 
It's  not  a  big  man  on  a  throne,  or  anything  the  least 
bit  like  that — ^but,  whatever  It  is.  It  seems  to  take  a  sort 
of  personal  interest  in  me.  I'm  hoping  for  a  better 
acquaintance  with  It,"  concluded  the  daughter  of  Helen 
Kent. 

And  at  that  moment  Helen  felt  as  though  her  last 
fortress  had  fallen.  She  had  built  her  redoubts  to  pro- 
tect her  child  against  art,  love,  and  faith ;  and  the  enemy, 
in  every  case,  seemed  to  have  beaten  its  way  through  in 
spite  of  her. 


m 


But  Helen   fought  on.     She  would  not  acknowledge 


350   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

defeat.  One  chance  was  left,  and  she  clung  to  that. 
If  she  could  ward  off  the  romantic  affair  for  a  period, 
it  yet  might  die  a  natural  death.  When  Bee  became 
able  to  scribble  a  bit,  and  asked  for  pencil  and  paper  to 
write  to  Philip  and  tell  him  of  her  illness  (what  must 
he  have  thought  at  not  hearing  in  all  this  time?  she 
wondered),  Helen  humoured  her,  and  brought  the  pretty 
willow  bed-tray,  note-paper  and  pencil.  But  the  letters 
were  never  posted.  Doctor's  orders,  Helen  explained  to 
herself,  justified  her  in  this  course.  These  orders  had 
been  for  complete  rest — nothing  that  could  cause  the 
slightest  excitement — ^no  communication  with  friends — the 
complete  laying-aside  of  all  interests  until  the  nervous 
prostration  was  over. 

For  thp  same  reason  Helen,  receiving  Philip's  inquiries 
suavely,  frankly  refused  to  pass  them  on.  Any  exchange 
of  letters  or  messages  surely  made  for  excitement,  she 
argued,  and  must  be  forbidden. 

For  Philip  had  heard  of  the  alarming  illness  and  had 
come  to  Mrs.  Kent  directly,  throwing  aside  secrecy  with 
honest  impatience. 

"You  are  so  kind  to  show  such  interest,  Mr.  Oliver," 
she  had  invariably  thanked  him.  "My  daughter  is  im- 
proving, but  wiU  be  unable  to  receive  guests  for  many 
a  long  day."  And  always  the  lady*s  baffling  courtesy 
had  bowed  him  out. 


But  Helen  realised,  as  the  weeks  went  on,  that  her 
efforts  to  keep  the  lovers  apart  amounted  only  to  tem- 


DEAD  LEAVES  351 

porising.  At  present,  while  Bee  remained  an  invalid, 
it  was  necessary  (so  said  Helen's  self-justification)  to 
protect  her  from  all  excitement;  and  surely  any  message 
from  her  lover  would  be  excitement  in  the  highest  degree. 
But  the  end  would  come.  Her  only  hope  lay  in  prolong- 
ing the  separation  indefinitely — then,  trust  the  fickle- 
ness of  youth  to  do  the  rest !  It  was  after  turning  away 
the  persistent  Mr.  Oliver  for  the  seventh  time  that  the 
solution  occurred  to  her.  She  strode  to  the  telephone, 
and  rattled  the  hook  in  savage  haste  to  reach  Miss 
CHfton. 

After  a  brief  but  enthusiastic  conversation  with  that 
lady,  Helen  hurried  to  Bee. 

"You're  to  go  with  Cousin  Ress  on  her  long  tour,  my 
dear!  What  do  you  say  to  that?  I've  arranged  to 
send  you  with  her,  for  the  sake  of  your  health.  Think 
of  it — ^two  years  of  globe-trotting!  Won't  that  make 
you  well?  I  shall  miss  you  terribly,  but  the  business 
career  can  wait — you'll  be  all  the  more  ready  to  make  a 
success  of  it  after  a  long  vacation. 

"I  haven't  told  you  the  news  about  the  business,'*  she 
went  on,  watching  eagerly  for  a  sign  of  response  to  her 
delight.  "You  haven't  been  well  enough  to  think  of 
such  things.  But  the  proud  fact  is  that  my  department, 
having  grown  like  a  green  bay  tree,  is  to  be  greatly 
enlarged.  I'm  to  have  a  suite  of  several  rooms,  a  corps 
of  assistants,  a  whopping  big  salary,  and  some  day, 
when  she  is  well  and  ready  to  take  up  her  career.  Miss 
Kent  is  to  have  a  fine  position  with  me.  Now!  Isn't 
that  a  dose  of  news  by  way  of  tonic?  And  aren't  you 
delighted  to  travel  with  Cousin   Ress?" 


352   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Bee  tried  to  rouse  from  the  despairing  apathy  into 
which  she  had  fallen.  It  was  weeks  since  her  return 
from  the  mountains — and  three  letters  she  had  sent  to 
Philip,  pleading  letters,  begging  for  a  word  in  her  illness — 
and  no  response!  He  didn't  care,  he  couldn't  care! 
And  what  could  life  mean  to  her  any  more,  but  a  dull  round 
of  empty  days — days  all  alike — days  like  grey  sand,  like 
the  Mojave  desert — days  that  would  reach  into  dreadful, 
endless  years.  ...  So  her  thoughts  ceaselessly  ran.  .  .  . 

"I'll  travel,  if  you  want  me  to.  It  doesn't  matter  to 
me." 

As  to  the  "career,"  that  was  too  far  in  the  weary 
future  to  be  debated  at  present.  Just  now,  she  could 
not  picture  herself  ever  dancing  again.  Bequita's  eyes 
turned  back  to  the  wan  scattering  of  dead  leaves  beside 
the  autumn  river. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
ROOF  O'  DEAD  DREAMS 


ON  a  certain  Siindsy  Philip  Oliver  strode  beside 
the  river.  A.,  D.  T.,  following  in  dumb  devo- 
tion, shared  his  master's  gloom.  The  world 
was  a  monochrome:  grey  sky,  gray  river,  grey  trees, 
grey  ships,  grey  thoughts.  The  thoughts  ran  turbid, 
a  sombre  stream  bearing  Philip  on  faster  and  faster. 
He  found  himself  walking  as  though  in  a  hopeless  race, 
block  after  block  shed  off  behind  him — and  still  no  goal 
attained. 

He  had  reached  the  point  of  despair. 

This  trap-like  situation — ^how  escape  it?  He  darted 
from  side  to  side  within  it,  fought  for  release,  pounded 
and  shouted,  and  still  it  closed  upon  him  inexorably.  It 
had  closed,  apparently,  forever.  The  more  he  thought, 
direly  striving  to  see  a  way  out,  the  tighter  it  closed. 
And  now,  worst  of  all,  had  come  self-blame,  that  torture 
from  which  there  is  no  relief. 

All  his  fault,  he  told  himself.  The  fault  of  that 
damnable  procrastination  of  his — the  curse  of  his  tem- 
perament. Always  he  let  things  slide  on  too  easily 
before    he    woke    up    and    did    something — "got    busy." 

353 


354.   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Usually,  to  be  sure,  he  did  get  busy  in  time,  after  all, 
before  it  was  too  late.  His  temperament  had  a  trick 
of  catching  at  an  opportunity  just  as  it  was  getting 
tired  of  waiting  for  him,  was  giving  him  up  for  good, 
and  departing.  And  he  did  manage  to  snatch  it  then, 
at  the  eleventh  hour.  In  fact,  he  usually  made  up  for 
lost  time  by  more  than  succeeding.  But  this  time — this 
time  it  was  too  late.  And  this  was  the  one  time  in  all 
life  that   really  mattered. 

He  had,  reflected  Philip,  let  the  woman  he  loved  slip 
from  him  forever. 

Why  had  he  permitted  those  spring  and  summer  days 
to  pass  and  nothing  done?  Week  after  week  he  had 
dallied  on,  making  love,  sunning  himself  in  its  warmth — 
as  though  love's  winter  were  never  to  follow!  He  had 
fallen  in  all  too  easily  with  Bequita's  protests — ^had  let 
her  put  him  off,  had  abided  by  her  panic-stricken  wish 
that  he  should  not  have  it  out  with  her  mother.  Why 
had  he  not  taken  matters  into  his  own  hands,  thrashed 
it  out  with  that  formidable  lady,  and,  in  the  probable 
event  of  her  persistent  refusal,  have  married  the  girl 
high-handedly?  Things  were  already  going  well  with 
his  business,  and  promising  much  better — ^he  need  no 
longer  offer  a  diet  of  bread,  cheese,  kisses  and  humour 
alone.  And  yet  he  had  let  the  weeks  slip  away,  and 
now 

Now — all  was  lost. 

No  moated  princess  could  have  been  more  inaccessible 
than  was  Bequita  to  her  despairing  prince.  In  hefr  ill- 
ness she  had  passed  completely  under  her  mother's 
dominion.    Over  and  over  he  had  called  at  the  apartment ; 


ROOF  O'  DEAD  DREAMS  355 

over  and  over  that  lady  had  offered  refreshment  and  a 
chair,  along  with  her  own  excellent  company,  and  Mr. 
Oliver,  his  teeth  clinched,  had  invariably  declined. 

No  use — as  well  give  up  and  acknowledge  himself 
beaten. 

The  grey  autumn  day,  all  the  greyer  for  being  Sun- 
day, when  work  could  not  offer  relief,  dragged  miserably. 
Despondent,  he  brought  his  walk  to  an  end,  and  sought 
the  small  apartment  bedroom  whither  last  May  he  had 
gone  to  dwell  in  such  discomfort  and  ecstasy,  all  be- 
cause, by  way  of  it,  he  had  found  his  path  to  the  Lady 
of  his  Thoughts  upon  her  Roof  o'  Dreams. 

Roof  o'  Dreams. 

In  all  these  weeks  alone  he  had  not  visited  the  spot» 
He  had  not  been  able  to  bear  the  thought  of  that  haunted 
garden.  Not  since  a  certain  summer  twilight  that 
he  recalled — ^the  last  meeting  there — when,  under  the 
fluttering  shelter  of  the  little  canopy,  he  had  held  her 
for  long  moments  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 

He  would  go  there  now! 

Suddenly  it  came  to  him  that  he  must  go.  Why,  he 
could  not  have  told.  Hitherto,  in  his  solitude,  he  had 
shunned  the  place;  but  now,  on  this  melancholy  autumn 
day  like  a  twilight,  something  urged — something  that 
would  not  be  denied,  a  compulsion  of  mysterious  forces. 


The  garden  was  dead.  Weather-stained,  the  barren 
flow^er-boxes  were  a  bleak  sight,  with  brown,  crumpled 
leaves  and  bare  stalks  their  only  display.     The  gay  little 


356   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

awning  had  been  removed,  along  with  all  the  pretty 
furnishings — ^willow  chair  and  stool,  cushions,  and  the 
like — they  had  made  a  veritable  summer  parlour  of  the 
tiny  pavilion.  Only  the  drab,  stained  boxes,  and  the 
crackle  of  dead  vines  blowing  in  a  grey  wind.  ,  .  .  Dead, 
all  dead.  ,  .  . 

A  small  wooden  bench  remained.  He  sank  upon  it, 
and  stared  out  at  the  gloomy  sky.  The  sky  seemed  to 
give  forth  a  deathly  chill.  Once  it  had  been  like  a 
summer  lawn — ^velvety  and  star-strewn;  once  flowers  had 
given  ofF  warm  scents,  mingling  in  the  tender  night ;  once 
the  canopy  had  fluttered  softly,  like  little  hovering 
wings.  .  .  . 

He  could  feel  it  all  again,  vivid  to  the  point  of  agony 
— that  lovely  young  form  against  his  breast — the  beat  of 
her  pulse — the  movement,  in  his  arms,  of  her  deep  sigh — 
the  silk  of  her  hair  against  his  cheek,  the  perfume  of  it, 
like  flowers 

His  face  contracted  in  the  torture  of  exquisite  happi- 
ness remembered  and  lost.  Forever  lost,  said  his 
thoughts. 

And  then,  in  the  bleakness,  something  came  to  him. 
It  was  a  resolve.  It  seemed  almost  as  though,  through 
that  dead  and  haunted  garden,  her  dear  ghost  passed, 
and,  passing,  waiting  for  a  pledge.  Was  it  for  this,  he 
wondered,  that  he  had  been  prompted  to  come? 

Yes,  he  was  pledged  now.  He  had  drifted  far  too 
easily,  too  long,  but  delay  was  over. 

"She's  got  to  let  me  see  Bee — she's  got  to!  For  I'm 
primed  now.     And  I'll  fight!" 


ROOF  O'  DEAD  DREAMS  357 

in 

"Really,  my  dear  Mr.  Oliver,"  Mrs.  Kent  was  saying 
that  evening,  as  she  and  her  caller  faced  one  another,  "I 
think  I  have  listened  very  patiently  to  your  very  im- 
patient demands  to  see  my  daughter.  In  fact  you  have 
almost — shall  I  say  it? — harangued!" 

Philip  stifled  a  snort  of  exasperation.  As  ever,  she 
was  eyeing  him  frostily,  playing  with  those  everlasting 
jet  beads  that  glittered  like  her  own  diabolical  jet  eyes. 

"Mrs.  Kent,  if  I  have  been  rude  in  any  way,  I  apolo- 
gise. I  came  simply  to  present  my  case  once  more,  and 
ask  for  a  fair  show.  In  brief,  it  sums  up:  that  I  love 
your  daughter  and  want  to  marry  her;  that,  formerly, 
she  cared  for  m*e;  and  that  I  consider  it  only  fair  that 
I  should  be  given  one  opportunity  to  see  her.  Perhaps 
she  would  be  indifferent — perhaps  not.  It's  fair  to  try 
the  thing  out.  By  this  time  she  must  be  strong  enough 
to  receive  me."  He  recognised  in  himself  a  new  force; 
surely  Mrs.  Kent  must  give  way  at  last  before  his  rein- 
forced purpose! 

"She  is  strong  enough,"  Helen  replied.  "She  has  im- 
proved so  rapidly,  indeed,  that  (I  should  have  told  j^ou 
this  at  once,  but  really  this  has  been  my  first  chance  to 
interrupt  your  stream  of  demands) — she  is  so  much  better 
that — "  the  lady  paused,  narrowed  her  eyes  to  gleam- 
ing lines,  and  fixed  them  for  long  moments  upon  the 
young  man. 

"That,"  she  went  on,  "since  Miss  Clifton  had  reasons 
for  starting  on  her  world-tour  rather  suddenly,  I  have 
let  my  daughter  start  with  her.    They  left  this  morning." 


358   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

She  felt  the  recoil  of  her  own  shot,  so  terrific  was  its 
force. 

"You  say  that  she — she  has  gone  on  a  world-tour?** 
he  breathed. 

"Yes.  They  have  left  for  San  Francisco,  and  from 
there  they  will  sail  immediately  for  Honolulu,  and  so 
on  around  the  globe.     They  will  be  gone  two  years." 

It  was  met  with  a  silence  so  dreadful  that  Helen  herself 
almost  shuddered.  Somehow  the  silence  was  like  a  face — 
drawn,  agonised.  .  .  . 

Moments  passed.  It  was  as  if  the  victim  of  some 
catastrophe  were  struggling  back  to  life.  Then,  ghastly 
and  rigid,  Philip  rose.  He  went  with  the  merest  "Good 
night." 

Two  years !  his  youth  was  echoing  over  and  over. 
Two  years !  Two  years !  As  well  say  forever !  Two 
years — an  eternity  at  twenty-four.  .  .  . 

A  swirl  of  leaves,  black  in  the  darkness,  crackled 
around  him  and  made  him  shiver,  with  their  suggestion 
of  death.  Dead  leaves,  dead  hopes,  dead  dreams,  dead 
love.  .  .  • 


CHAPTER  XX 
PARADISE  AND  HELEN 


IT  had  come,  Helen  realised. 
Sitting  there  alone  with  Cuyler  Aspden,  in  the 
living-room  of  the  little  apartment,  shut  in  by  the 
autumn  night,  she  met  his  eyes  for  an  imperishable  mo- 
ment and  knew  that  it  had  come. 

"Everything  has  been  changing  for  me  so  rapidly  that 
I  have  hardly  made  out  the  situation  yet,"  he  had  said, 
as  he  hurried  in.  "May  I  tell  you  my  news  in  this  hour 
before  my  train  leaves?" 

That  was  all.  But,  meeting  his  eyes,  she  knew  that 
she  could  no  longer  hold  it  off.  It  had  been  bound  to 
come,   some  time. 

She  felt  her  throat  tighten.  Sooner  or  later  she  would 
have  a  direct  question  to  answer.  .  .  .  Would  she  have 
the  strength  to  meet  it  defiantly.? 

How  often  she  had  vowed  that  she  would  meet  it,  over- 
come it,  and  triumph.  She  who  knew  all  the  bitterest 
that  experience  had  to  teach — no  walking  into  a  noose 
for  her!  Insight  and  will — Helen  had  drawn  her  hands 
to  fists,  tensed  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  had  brightened  with 
resolve — insight   and  will  were  her   sword   and   buckler. 

359 


360   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Yes,  she  would  be  ready!  She  could  meet  the  question, 
laugh  in  its  face,  scorn  its  human  weakness,  come  off 
victorious — and  keep  her  hold  on  this  valuable  friendship 
into  the  bargain!  Trust  the  skill  of  a  woman-of-the- 
world  for  that !     Thus  she  had  boasted. 

"Nothing  appeals  to  the  solitary  as  does  news,"  she 
replied  to  his  words,  not  his  eyes.  "I  was  sure  some- 
thing 'thrilling,'  as  Bee  says,  was  on  foot  when  you 
ran  up  on  a  Monday."  It  was  the  evening  following 
Philip's  visit,  and  Dr.  Aspden  had  just  learned  with 
surprise  of  Bee's  sudden  departure. 

"Let's  have  a  cup  of  late  coffee  as  accompaniment  to 
the  tale."  She  touched  to  flame  the  spirit-lamp  under 
the  gleaming  brass  pot.  Her  sharply  defined,  skilful 
motions  held  him,  as  always,  with  the  fascination  of  their 
delicate  mastery.  If  it  were  only  to  drop  a  lump  into 
a  teacup,  or  poke  a  log  to  brighter  burning,  she  never 
wasted  a  movement,  each  was  aimed  with  grace  bom 
of  sureness.  Ah,  her  sureness — it  was  with  that  he  must 
battle,  and  to-night! 


"Monday's  for  luck,"  he  quoted  in  response,  and  left 
the  statement  unexplained.  He  did  not,  just  then,  begin 
liis  story.  His  glance  roamed  over  the  room,  softly 
bright  in  the  lamplight,  with  cushions  and  curtains  of 
warm  browns  and  yellows.  Books  and  fresh  magazines 
lay  about,  a  mass  of  autumn  foliage  and  berries  shone 
above  the  fireplace,  comfort,  charm  abounded  wherever 
he  turned  his  eyes. 


PARADISE  AND  HELEN  361 

"It  is  such  a  room  as  this,"  he  murmured,  "that  I 
have  visualised.  And  such — companionship,"  he  con- 
cluded resolutely,  and  his  eyes  gripped  hers. 

Again  Helen  felt  her  throat  tighten.  Formerly,  she 
had  sworn  she  would  meet  it  with  every  weapon  ready,  not 
a  loose  buckle  in  her  armour.  .  .  .  Again  reprieve. 

"A  great  change  has  come  to  me,"  said  Dr.  Aspden. 
"After  so  many  years  with  the  Monroe  that  I  looked 
upon  it  as  for  life,  I  am  taking  a  very  important  new 
position  which  means  a  broader  scope  in  every  sense. 
It  has  all  been  so  rapid,  my  decision  had  to  be  made  in 
a  day.  ...  In  brief,  I  am  to  be  at  the  head  of  the  great 

new    hospital    at    L -,    near    New    York.      It    is    a 

tremendous  opportunity."  He  halted,  but  only  a  mo- 
ment.    "Helen,"  he  said,  "will  you  come  with  me?" 

In  the  end  it  had  come  so  abruptly  that  she  was  unpre- 
pared, and  she  met  it  with  silence.  He  waited,  as  silent 
as  she.  He  was  not  the  man  to  urge  and  plead,  to  add 
coaxings  and  wooings  to  his  blunt  question.  He  had 
flung  it  down  for  her  to  take  or  leave. 

"You  know  my  belief  on  that  subject,"  she  said  at 
length. 

"I  know  your  unbelief.  It  is  purely  negative.  A 
negative  isn't  even  worth  combating." 

She  smiled  slightly,  but  shook  her  head.  "It  is  far 
too  positive  to  be  regarded  in  that  wise.  I've  told  you 
more  than  once  that  I  have  no  illusions  concerning  what 
is  called  'love' — the  alleged  basis  of  marriage.  Romantic 
love  is  a  world-old  delusion,  nature's  trick  to  gain  her 
ends.     Instincts  over  which  we  have  no  control  set  the 


862   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

trap.  But  if  we  can't  control  the  instincts  we  can  doclge 
the  trap." 

Her  lips  were  uttering  the  old  formula,  the  tenets 
of  a  lifelong  creed ;  but  suddenly,  looking  into  his  face — 
passionate  but  self-mastered,  awaiting  her  word  with  that 
man's  control  of  self  that  was  so  infinitely  more  in- 
toxicating than  the  hotly  impetuous  pleadings  of  a  boy 
once  had  been — Helen  gave  way.  The  truth  tore  from 
her,  an  elemental  thing  bursting  bars. 

"Oh,  I  don't  pretend  to  be  proof  against  feeling!"  she 
cried.  "Old  as  I  am,  nature  fools  me  yet!  Here  I  am, 
thirty-nine,  with  hell's  torments  behind  me,  and  still,  if 
I  followed  my  impulse,  I  should  plunge  in  again!  But  I 
know  what  it  would  mean.  A  few  months — say  a  year — 
of  glamour.    Then  a  lifetime  of  disillusion." 

"But  you  can't  think  that  I " 

"Oh,  of  course,  you  wouldn't  be  a  brute.  You'd  be  a 
dutiful  husband.  There  are  various  forms  of  misery. 
With  you,  it  wouldn't  be  a  gross,  overt  form.  But  that 
doesn't  matter.  Disillusion — the  death  of  glamour — petty 
irritations  that  become  maddening  in  their  sting — ennui, 
perpetual  grinding-out  of  the  days — ^bleak  commonplace- 
ness  where  once  was  magic — ^what  a  long,  grey  tragedy! 
Might  it  not  be  even  worse  than  the  spectacular  cruel- 
ties?" 

"Decidedly  worse.  In  fact,  I  can  imagine  no  torment 
like  that  you  picture.  But  my  picture  is  different.  I 
see  years,  not  of  the  infatuation  of  twenty-year-old  chil- 
dren, to  be  sure;  but  of  a  delightful,  mellow  companion- 
ship, a  keen  mutual  interest,  the  pleasure  of  building 
together,  travelling  together,  reading  together,  enjoying 


PARADISE  AND  HELEN  363 

friends  together,  settling  down  together  in  a  charming 
room  beside  a  fire " 

He  looked  up  to  discover  that  Helen  had  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  as  though  to  shut  out  the  picture 
he  drew. 

She  was  not  meeting  the  attack. 

Where  was  her  once-boasted  defense?  Some  buckle  in 
her  armour  must  have  been  left  loose.  Somehow  her 
sword  must  have  failed  of  sharpness.  She  felt  an  in- 
credible weakness,  a  sense  of  surrender  creeping  upon  her. 
What  could  it  mean — why  was  she  not  springing  forward 
with  her  counter- thrusts  of  laughter,  of  irony,  of  ready 
wit  and  baffling  coldness?  Why  was  she  not  rising  to 
complete  refusal,  settling  the  question  then  and  there,  as 
she  had  so  clearly  foreseen? 

Instead,  she  was  begging  for  time!  She,  Helen  Kent, 
undecided,  pleading  for  time  like  a  tremulous  girl! 

"Please — please  go !"  she  was  begging.  "I  can't  think 
now!     I  must  have  a  chance  alone — to  think." 

He  rose.  "It  is  time  for  my  train,  and  you  shall  think 
alone.  I  am  leaving  for  Chicago  to  confer  with  a  great 
surgeon  about  joining  me.  May  I  find  your  answer  upon 
my  return,  Saturday  morning?" 

"You  shall  have  it  then." 

He  went  quickly,  with  only  a  friendly  hand-clasp. 


in 


The  little  home  lay  in  deep  silence.  The  city's  noise 
had  died  from  its  hearing.  How  still  the  apartment  waa 
without  Bee !    Only  a  cricket's  voice  was  heard ;  the  small 


364   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

creature  had  arrived  with  the  branches  of  autumn  foliage, 
and  had  taken  up  its  abode  with  Helen.  It  was  argu- 
mentative. It  stalked  forth  into  sight  now,  and  took 
a  position  facing  her,  as  though  in  alliance  with  her 
thoughts. 

The  clock  ticked  off  the  minutes  and  multiplied  them 
into  hours.  Still  Helen's  noisy  thoughts  and  the  noisy 
cricket  argued  on. 

It  was  madness,  madness,  madness,  cried  the  thoughts. 

"Madness,  madness,  madness,"  rasped  the  insect. 

The  whole  thing  was  out  of  the  question,  as  it  always 
had  been.  Why  had  she  made  trouble  for  herself  and 
for  Cuyler  Aspden  as  well,  by  thus  delaying  her  final 
answer?  She  must  write  at  once,  must  prove  to  him 
how  positive  was  her  rejection.  .  .  . 

Thus  ran  the  determined  thoughts,  formulated  under 
the  old  creed;  and  each  time  that  she  declared  herself 
thus  finally,  there  arose  a  picture:  friends,  books,  fire, 
home,  together 

"It's  a  delusion!"  cried  Helen  Kent,  and  she  cried  it 
aloud.  It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  she  was 
worn  to  pallor  by  the  battle  of  her  mind,  but  her  eyes 
shone  vivid.  "The  thing  couldn't  last !  It's  a  delusion — 
don't  I  know?" 

And  then  she  crumpled.  She  went  down  in  a  conquered 
heap,  her  arms  out  upon  the  table,  her  head  upon  the 
cross  they  made. 

"My  God!"  she  said,  and  she  was  unaware  of  the 
grotesque  irony  of  the  familiar  phrase  upon  her  lips. 
"It's  a  delusion,  and  I  know  it — ^but — -friends,  books, 
fire,   home — with    him!      It    would    be    paradise!      The 


PARADISE  AND  HELEN  365 

glamour  would  end  in  a  year,  and  thirty  years  of  dis- 
illusion would  follow,  but  what  would  the  thirty  be  if 
I'd  had  the  one?  I'd  rather  have  that  year,"  she  cried, 
"rather  have  it,  knowing  that  I  faced  thirty  years  of 
misery  ahead,  than  anything  that  life  could  send!  It 
would  make  all  the  past  and  all  the  future  worth  while. 
I'm  no  longer  young,  I  should  go  in  with  my  eyes  open. 
And  in  spite  of  that — I'll  face  a  lifetime  of  purgatory. 
For  first  I  shall  have  had  my  year !" 

Helen  flung  herself  erect ;  she  seemed  to  be  addressing 
the  raucous  insect  as  though  the  tiny,  violent  creature 
embodied  her  own  protesting  thoughts : 

"The  delirious  passion  of  3'outh  is  no  more  than  a 
surface  bubble  upon  such  waters  as  these!  Paradise  is 
worth  any  price!  Who  cares  for  the  cost  of  buying 
heaven — ^with  him,  with  him !" 

Paradise;  paradise.  It  was  like  a  tune  that  her  mind 
sang  over  and  over.  .  .  .  She  sat  gazing  on  into  the 
autumn  night  beyond  the  window.  .  .  . 

The  irascible  insect  had  fallen  still.  .  .  . 

The  sudden  determined  resumption  of  the  creature's 
argument  roused  her.  It  was  turning  to  leave;  but  it 
could  not  go  without  a  last  word.  Like  a  loud  warning 
it  suddenly  uttered  its  thoughts ;  the  warning,  as  it  scur- 
ried away,  bore  a  ridiculous  likeness  to : 

"Bec-c-c-c-,  Bec-c-c-c-,  Bec-c-c-c!" 

IV 

Bee! 

How,  in  this  blind  hour,  had  she  for  a  moment  lost 
sight  of  the  relation  of  all  this  affair  to  Bee?     How  had 


366   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

passion  so  swept  her,  like  devouring  flame,  that  she  had 
seen  only  her  paradise,  awaiting  and  shining?  Her  long- 
ings had  bounded  over  every  obstacle,  had  not  even  ob- 
served that  the  obstacles  were  there.  What  had  she  been 
doing,  thus  to  dream,  madly,  madly.  .  .  . 

Bee! 

Helen  herself  might  steer  in  perilous  waters,  after  her 
long  and  dreadful  schooling,  and  with  her  steelier  tem- 
perament to  guard  her;  but  Bee!  That  sensitive  plant! 
Why,  the  child  would  wither  under  the  certain  disillusion 
that  marriage  would  be  to  such  a  little  idealist,  like  a 
flower  in  the  desert  wind !  The  first  blast  would  kill  her, 
kill  her  very  soul ! 

Bee  had  admitted  that  her  belief  that  Helen  was  "in 
love  with  Dr.  Aspden"  had  prompted  her  to  a  clandestine 
affair.  And  how  could  Helen  forbid  her  daughter  to  marry 
if  she  herself  should  yield  to  marriage?  Impossible  to 
explain  that  what  might  be  safe  for  her  was  peril  to 
another ! 

"Friends,  books,  fire,  home,  togeth — *'  sang  her  mock- 
ing thoughts. 

"Don't — don't  say  it  again!"  she  cried,  as  though 
someone  had  spoken.     "Not  thatT' 

A  queer  little  visitor  rose  capriciously  in  her  memory 
— an  ungainly  insect  scurrying  away  in  irascible  pro- 
test, crying  its  disapproval  in  sounds  that  ridiculously 
resembled  : 

"Bec-c-c-c,  Bec-c-c-c,  Bec-c-c-c!" 

"It  was  to  have  been  black  willow  furniture  and  dark 
red  and  blue  chintz — friends,  books,  fire,  home.  .  .  ." 

Her  silence,  with  eyes  closed,  with  that  tense  pressing 


PARADISE  AND  HELEN  367 

against  self  that  made  every  muscle  rigid,  was  as  long 
as  another  woman's  prayer.  When  it  broke,  there  was 
no  further  protest  against  the  powers,  no  despairing 
pleas.  .Helen  Kent  merely  picked  up  her  gold  pen,  took 
out  agreeable  gr^  note-paper,  and  wrote. 

There  were  expressions  of  gratitude,  esteem,  and 
friendship.     Following  these: 

"Of  course,  knowing  my  attitude,  you  cannot  be  sur- 
prised at  my  final  and  positive  refusal." 

Five  minutes  later  this  reply  fell,  with  a  flashing  whizz, 
down  the  slide  and  into  the  hands  of  a  postman  who 
happened  to  be  collecting  mail  in  the  hall  below.  The 
die  was  cast. 

"She  would  give  her  all,  she  would  sell  her  last  chance 
of  happiness  for  Bee."  How  often  she  had  used  the 
phrase !  .  .  .  Paradise.  .  .  . 

The  stroke  of  a  pen.  .  .  . 


The  Chicago  train  was  not  crowded  that  night.  l€  of- 
fered comfortable  roominess  to  the  reflective  Dr.  Aspden, 
enjoying  an  excellent  late  cigar  in  the  smoking-car^  or 
strolling  thoughtfully  through  the  aisle  to  his  own  sec-« 
tion,  where  he  sat  long,  in  the  solitude  of  others*  slum-^ 
bers,  to  watch  distant  lights  scurrying  to  cover  away 
from  the  flashing  train. 

Again  he  saw  Helen's  gesture — covering  hei*  eyes,  as 
though  to  fight  off*  the  vision  of  home — a  home  together. 
He  heard  her  tremulous  (yes,  tremulous!)  pleading: 

"I  must  have  a  chance  alone — to  think  I'* 


368      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

To  think! 

What  was  she  thinking^ — to-night,  as  the  train  and 
the  hours  sped  on  with  him?  Was  she  awake?  Was 
she  still  undecided?  Or  had  she  settled  the  question  for 
good  and  all?    Had  she  determined  upon  her  answer 

Her  answer ! 

With  the  human  instinct  of  self-protection  against 
hope,  he  tried  to  push  away  the  thought;  but  it  was  too 
strong  for  him.  It  thrust  its  way  in,  past  the  barricade' 
it  cried:  "Her  answer — it  means  happiness!  Don't  you 
know  it?     She  sees,  she  sees!" 

Long  ago  he  had  made  his  diagnosis  of  the  "case" 
with  professional  self-confidence. 

"Of  course,  one  of  my  profession  must  look  upon  her 
morbid  obsession  with  complete  understanding.  Com- 
plete understanding.  The  shock  of  girlish  illusions 
wrecked — repeated  shocks — ideals,  shattered;  bitterness 
and  a  hatred  of  all  men  are  the  natural  consequence. 
Such  obsessions  are  by  no  means  uncommon.  And  they 
can  be  overcome  only  by  a  thorough  comprehension.  A 
physician,"  continued  the  Doctor  in  soliloquy,  "compre- 
hends." 

He  recognised  the  note  of  assurance  creeping  into  his 
own  inner  voice,  and  again  he  attempted  to  rear  the  bar- 
rier against  hope.  But  hope  was  arrogant.  "Her  ges- 
ture, her  tremulousness  !"    hope  cried. 

"Such  a  case  must  be  handled  with  skill.  Violent  siege 
would  have  driven  her  to  still  more  violent  dislike  of  our 
unfortunate  sex.  Oh,  it  was  necessary  to  be  patient — 
and  wary.  Never  to  press  the  matter.  Slowly  to  build 
up    confidence,    friendship,    esteem,    intimacy."       (How 


PARADISE  AND  HELEN  369 

"slowly"  may  a  few  months  of  waiting  pass,  even  at  forty- 
seven  !) 

Again  he  saw  her  gesture,  her  tremulous  indeci- 
sion. .  .  . 

Her  answer — even  now  it  might  be  determined — ^he  must 
ward  off  hope.  .  .  . 

And  at  tliat  he  gave  way. 

"I  can't  ward  it  off.  I  saw  her  gesture.  I  heard  her 
voice.  I  can't  help  it — I  believe  that  she  sees,  at  last," 
said  Dr.  Aspden,  and  the  dark  car  window  reflected  a 
face  in  which  confidence  triumphed. 


VI 


Helen  had  renounced  paradise,  but  she  was  at  peace 
with  herself.  She  had  seen  Bee  on  her  way  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth.  She  had  seen  Philip  crushed  by  despair 
at  the  knowledge  of  miles  and  years  between  them.  But 
she  had  not  seen  him  an  hour  or  so  later  on  that  Sunday 
evening. 

It  was  after  leaving  her  that  the  great  idea  had  come 
to  him,  driving  like  a  furious  spur. 

"My  romance  began  with  mad  pursuit — let  it  end  so !" 
the  idea  had  shouted  in  his  ears.  "It  was  useless  before 
— it's  probably  useless  now.  But  in  any  event,  I  shall 
have  fought  it  through!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 
PURSUIT 


HE  had  walked  the  most  of  the  three  thousand 
miles  across  the  continent,  Philip  felt,  when 
the  train  snorted  into  Oakland.  For  days 
and  nights  he  had  placed  the  aisles  much  of  the  time; 
had  savagely  endured  passivity,  the  inability  to  get  out 
and  push  the  wheels  faster;  had  slept  barely  at  all;  had 
visited  the  dining-car  only  to  bolt  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
turn  from  food ;  had  smoked  incessantly ;  had  stared  from 
the  observation  tear^s  rtear  platform  wondering  if  he 
couldn't  run  faster  than  the  train  if  he  should  jump  off 
and  try  it.  .  .  .  San  Francisco  at  last!  And  six  hours 
behind  time! 

Practically,  he  had  already  lost.  Only  by  some  stroke 
of  unheard-of  luck  the  Hawaii-bound  vessel  might  be 
late  in  sailing.  He  had  the  barest  possible  data  to  go 
by.  Mrs.  Kent  had  said  that  Bee  was  to  sail  "imme- 
diately"; quick  queries  in  New  York  had  developed  the 
information  that  the  first  Honolulu  sailing  after  what 
must  be  Bee's  arrival  in  San  Francisco  was  the  following 
day.  After  a  mad  race  of  preparation — telephone  con- 
sultation with  his  "Chief"  (who  had  proved  "great"  be- 

370 


PURSUIT  371 

yond  words),  packing,  ticket  purchasing,  all  frantic  as  a 
whirlwind,  he  had  caught  an  early  morning  train  for  t!ie 
Coast,  on  the  chance  of  arrival  before  that  sailing. 

And  then — washouts,  interminable  delays,  the  Overland 
standing  in  the  middle  of  a  desert  as  idle  as  a  painted 
ship  upon  a  painted  ocean,  insane  speed  to  cover  the*  loss 
of  time,  a  breakdown,  and  the  upshot — six  hours  late! 

But,  up  to  the  last,  he  would  fight.  He  would  die 
sword  in  hand.  A  taxi  was  summoned — a  volley  of  or- 
ders, and  he  was  off  for  the  pier.  It.  occurred  to  him 
that,  had  Mr.  Popp  been  in  charge,  he  would  have  ar- 
rived in  time.  But  even  then,  in  the  midst  of  pursuit,  he 
recognised  its  futility.  He  could  not  dash  up  a  gang- 
plank, cry  to  a  departing  passenger,  "Marry  me!"  and 
snatch  her  ashore  to  the  altar.  His  only  chance  had 
lain  in  a  quiet  talk  previously.  .  .  .  And  still  he  pur- 
sued, and  arrived  to  see  the  Hawaii-bound  boat  steaming 
forth  blithely  into  the  sunlit  waters  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

There  were  minutes  in  which  the  most  insane  visions 
rioted  through  his  brain.  On,  on,  he  saw  himself  jour- 
neying— to  Hawaii,  to  Japan,  perhaps,  or  India,  or  China 
— strange  lands  whither  the  whim  might  be  carrying  these 
two  travellers — ^learning  at  every  port  of  their  departure, 
catching  a  clue  only  to  lose  it  again.  .  .   . 

But  utter  brain-  and  body-exhaustion  overcame  him. 
Why  had  he  not  realised  all  along  that  the  whole  pursuit 
had  been  for  an  ignis  fatuus?  He  might  go  on  indefi- 
nitely, missing  the  travellers  here,  there,  everywhere ;  and, 
on  the  other  hand,  what?  Might  not  time  have  killed 
Bee's  feeling  for  him?     He  was  disheartened  enough  to 


372   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

credit  any  calamity.  In  his  despair  he  pictured  her  love 
as  dead  as  the  garden  where  it  had  flowered. 

It  was  then  that  Philip  Oliver  gave  up.  "A  hotel — 
any — I  don't  care  which,"  was  his  only  order.  A  little 
later  he  found  himself  in  a  dingy  old  hostelry  of  cracked 
wallpaper  and  stuffy  atmosphere,  a  melancholy  survivor 
of  the  Fire ;  and  in  a  dismal  and  enormous  room  he  sank 
into  a  chair  and  felt  the  chill  of  final  hopelessness  fall 
upon  him  like  an  enveloping  cloak.  It  was  over,  and 
he  had  lost.     To-morrow  he  would  return  to  New  York. 

The  paralysis  of  gloom  conquered.  In  a  sleep  more 
like  lethargy  than  the  normal  man's  rest,  he  forgot  hope, 
longing,  passion,  sorrow,  even  hopelessness. 


n 


Philip  woke  to  a  chaos  of  whistlings  and  siren  shriek- 
ings  in  the  harbour.  The  room  was  dark;  he  had  slept 
on  into  the  evening,  it  seemed,  in  his  numb  exhaustion. 
Evidently  something  was  the  matter;  he  shook  himself 
together  and  went  downstairs. 

"There's  been  some  sorti  of  accident  to  a  boat,"  the 
clerk  told  him.  "She's  putting  back  in  for  repairs.  She'll 
be  able  to  start  again  by  morning.  It's  the  one  that 
sailed  for  Honolulu  this  afternoon." 

Philip  felt  himself  tighten  in  every  muscle.  "And  the 
passengers — hurry  up!  Wliat  about  the  passengers?" 
he  demanded,  thrusting  his  face  toward  the  clerk. 

That  person  coldly  stared,  as  though  the  man  were 
a  little  mad.  "Oh,  they're  all  right.  Nobody  hurt.  All 
back  in  port  by  this  time." 


PURSUIT  373 

And  then  Philip  recognised,  emerging  from  the  con- 
fusion of  swift  impressions,  guesses,  perceptions,  reflec- 
tions, that  the  gods  were  holding  out  something  to  him. 
That  something  was — another  chance! 

And  a  last  chance.  By  a  miracle  of  delay.  Bee  Wa? 
now  in  the  city  with  him,  and  the  guard  was  absent! 

How  find  her? 

Tliat  had  been  his  previous  problem,  while  he  had 
raced  across  three  thousand  miles  in  the  wild  hope  of 
arriving  before  his  Princess  should  vanish.  He  could 
but  try  at  each  hotel.  And  suppose  the  capricious  Miss 
CHfton  happened  not  to  choose  a  hotel  at  all — she  might 
be  dropping  in  upon  relatives,  for  instance!  .  .  . 

"All  I  can  do  is  to  begin,  and  go  down  the  hotel  list," 
he  told  himself,  seeking  a  telephone  booth.  "My  first 
guess  is  the  Castle.  That's  expensive  enough  for  Miss 
Clifton,  and  has  the  tradition  of  age.  Elderly  people 
like  elderly  things,"  he  assured  himself,  with  the  satisfied 
sapience  of  youth. 

But  the  Castle  registered  no  "Clifton"  or  "Kent." 

"Stupid!  I  might  have  known  that  the  adventurous 
spinster  would  choose  the  most  up-to-date!"  he  swung 
about.  He  had  met  her  once  at  Mrs.  Kent's  and  had 
formed  rapid  opinions. 

He  called  another,  the  height  of  modern  fashion  and 

fabulous  prices.    A  "no"  from  the  clerk.    The  E ,  the 

H ,  the  C ,  and  the  W followed  in  turn.    He 

had  exhausted  the  list  of  famously  excellent  establish- 
ments ;  he  began  on  the  simple,  quiet,  little  known  "family 
hotels."    In  vain. 

Balfied,  he  returned  to  his   own  dismal  headquarters. 


374   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock.  The  vessel,  he  had  taken  time 
to  make  sure,  would  be  sailing  early  the  next  morning. 
What,  in  a  few  hours  of  night,  could  he  do.^* 

Leaving  the  elevator,  he  walked  down  the  long  and 
dreadfully  red-carpeted  hall.  He  was  slow  with  misery. 
His  eyes  were  bent  to  the  floor.  Raising  them,  he  faced 
Miss  Clifton. 

^^HereV^  was  the  one  word  that  found  its  way  from  his 
lips. 

*'Here,  of  course,"  replied  the  lady  crisply,  holding 
out  her  hand  to  him.  "Where  else?  I  always  stop  here. 
There  isn't  another  chef  on  the  Coast  who  thoroughly 
comprehends  the  subtlety  of  a  cracked  crab." 

"And? "    He  was  clutching  the  hand  she  had  given 

him,  as  if  it  were  his  one  hold  on  hope,  impaling  her 
eyes  upon  his  own. 

"And? You  mean,  I  suppose,  young  man,  that 

you'd  rather  hear  about  my  youthful  cousin  than  about 
cracked  crab  just  now."     So  she  knew! 

For  a  moment  of  frowning  study  Miss  Clifton  waited. 
She  shook  her  head,  she  pondered,  she  pursed  her  lips, 
she  stamped  her  foot  at  her  own  thoughts.     Then 

"Come  along!"  she  cried,  and  it  was  the  voice  of  an- 
archy. "I  suppose  I  ought  not  to — there'll  be  the  devil 
to  pay — ^but  I'm  sick  of  this  whole  inquisition.  That's 
what  it  is — rack  and  thumbscrew  applied  to  young 
love.  .  .  .  Young  man,  come  with  me !  I  have  a  romantic 
soul,  and  from  this  moment  it  takes  the  bit  in  its  teeth!" 
With  which  remarkable  flow  of  rhetoric,  she  led  him 
down  the  hall  and  threw  open  the  door  of  a  private  sit- 
ting-room. 


PURSUIT  875 

Beside  the  table  Bee  sat  reading.  She  looked  up  lan- 
guidly— then,  as  amazed  recognition  flushed  her  cheeks, 
widened  her  eyes 

"I've  got  business  to  attend  to  downstairs,"  said  Miss 
Clifton.     "It  will  take  me  quite  a  while." 


CHAPTER  XXII 
HELEN  REFLECTS 


ON  Saturday  morning  Mr.  McNab  briskly  led  the 
way  down  the  office  corridor,  and,  with  a  vast 
display  of  pride,  flung  open  a  door  to  an  alertly 
masterful  lady  who  entered,  smartly  fur-swathed  to  the 
chin. 

"Behold!  What  do  you  say  to  that?  Some  suite,  eh, 
what?  Think  you  own  the  Monroe,  directors  and  all, 
don't  you!  Maybe  you'll  be  satisfied  now  for  a  week  or 
so,  before  you  order  a  building  all  your  own!" 

Thus  with  cheerful  persiflage  Mr.  McNab  introduced 
to  Helen  her  new  domain.  It  was  a  kingdom.  The  two 
suites  which  formerly  had  been  her  own  and  Dr.  Asp- 
den's  had  been  thrown  together,  and  two  more  rooms 
added,  to  give  the  women's  department  the  scope  it  re- 
quired. The  smell  of  varnish  arose,  pungent  and  deli- 
cious in  its  suggestion  of  freshness;  everywhere  shone 
newly  papered  walls,  newly  upholstered  furniture,  reno- 
vated ceilings  and  floors  and  woodwork.  Two  great 
potted  rubber  plants  gave  the  final  touch  of  impressive- 
ness  to  the  dark-blue  and  mahogany  grandeur. 

"Can't  you  say  'Thanks'  to  the  gentleman,  and  make 
a  pretty  bow.''"  prattled  the  irrepressible  McNab. 

376 


HELEN  REFLECTS  377 

*'It  would  be  so  inadequate  that  I  haven't  the  courage 
to  say  it,"  she  told  him,  smiling  her  delighted  pride  into 
his  fat,  shining  little  face.  "I'll  say  it  in  terms  of  the 
annual  reports — wait  and  see!" 

"I  see  already!  You're  a  winner,  Mrs.  Kent,  if  ever 
there  was  one.  My  money's  on  you  every  time.  Oh — 
by  the  way — ^we'U  have  to  be  looking  up  a  new  secretary 
for  you.  That  little  Muldoon  just  up  and  resigned  yes- 
terday— agoing  to  be  married.  Don't  know  what's  the 
matter  with  'em  all,  but  it's  epidemic.  Lost  two  cracker- 
jack  stenographers  last  month,  and  my  best  bookkeeper's 
given  notice,  and  I  have  suspicions  of  another.  Always 
noticed  it  breaks  out  in  waves,  like  influenza.  ...  So 
long!     Luck!" 

Alone  in  her  splendour,  Helen  moved  about  restlessly, 
like  a  queen  becoming  acquainted  with  a  new  domain.  It 
was  Saturday — the  agents  and  assistants  would  not  be 
reporting  for  duty  until  next  week.  She  loosened  her 
wraps,  at  last  dropped  into  a  vast  cushioned  chair  in 
her  own  old  office,  gazed  about. 

It  was  empire. 

Even  her  fondest  visions  had  not  pictured  such  proud 
achievement  as  this.  Success  was  written  in  every  detail 
of  costly  furniture,  of  spaciousness,  of  desks  and  equip- 
ment with  their  implication  of  "big  business."  Achieve- 
ment, success — ^no  longer  an  inexpensive  apartment,  no 
longer  a  Russian  Anna  blundering  to  the  door.  .  .  .  And 
she  had  won  it  all  herself !  By  dint  of  concentrated  effort, 
the  steady  driving  of  brain  and  will,  she  had  more  than 
"made  good."  Far  sooner  than  she  had  ever  dreamed, 
she  had  "won  out." 


378   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

The  thought  occurred  to  her: 
"I've  got  what  I  went  after." 

Somehow  there  was  a  curious  lack  of  elation  in  the 
thought. 


Helen  rose,  and  moved  restlessly  about  the  rooms.  Her 
thoughts  reverted  to  Bee.  She  had  not  received  the  ex- 
pected message,  but  of  course  the  child  was  already  sail- 
ing safely  toward  Pacific  islands.  Helen  would  not  per- 
mit herself  to  feel  anxious. 

She  strolled  toward  the  adjoining  room,  but  suddenly 
she  turned  sharply,  and  closed  its  door  behind  her — the 
once-s,ealed  door.  (At  that  moment  Cuyler  Aspden  might 
be  reading  her  letter!)  There  was  a  ghost  in  that  room. 
The  ghost  chanted  in  her  ears  the  refrain  which  all  one 
night  she  had  battled  to  drive  out :  "Friends,  books,  fire, 
home."  That  room  should  be  turned  over  to  her  assist- 
ants for  the  present,  until  her  nerves  stopped  their  non- 
sense.   Nerves !    What  traitors  they  were ! 

She  wandered  to  her  own  desk.  Beside  it  stood  the 
deserted  typewriter  of  one  Maybelle  Muldoon.  Married ! 
In  Helen's  memory  rose  a  familiar  thimble  and  bit  of 
embroidery,  the  blushings  and  snatched  seconds  conse- 
crated to  the  hope-chest. 

It  was  at  that  moment,  as  she  sat  in  lonely  state  and 
thought  of  Maybelle  Muldoon,  that  the  sense  of  futility 
began  to  move  in  Helen's  mind.  It  began  almost  imper- 
ceptibly, as  does  the  avalanche:  a  slight  downward  slide, 
a  slight  gain  of  momentum 


HELEN  REFLECTS  379 

What  an  effort  she  had  made  on  Miss  Muldoon's  be- 
half, to  root  "nonsense"  out  of  her  mind,  to  make  the 
deluded  young  idiot  see  that  "men  are  all  right  until  you 
marry  them,"  that  her  interests  lay  in  business!  And 
so,  too,  she  had  worked  with  the  other  office  girls.  And 
in  spite  of  it,  marriage  had  become  epidemic  among 
them! 

How  the  world  seemed  bound  over  to  its  delusions 
after  all,  Helen  reflected.  (The  sense  of  futility  was 
gaining  momentum  with  every  instant.)  Here  was  this 
matter  of  belief,  too.  When  she  had  been  a  girl,  at  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  she  had  supposed  that 
the  broader  thinkers  were  getting  bravely  beyond  the  old 
horizons,  were  "dropping  poppycock."  But  on  all  hands 
nowadays  were  signs  of  a  curious  change.  Not,  she  real- 
ised, a  movement  toward  the  church  of  old  days,  but  a 
tendency  to  reach  toward  something  not  demonstrable  in 
the  laboratory.  (To  Helen  this  indicated  a  return  to 
old  horizons ;  she  failed  to  see  in  it  a  movement  still  fur- 
ther beyond  those  that  formerly  had  been  "broad.") 

It  was  queer.  Everybody  was  saying  that  the  war 
had  done  it.  Here  a  distinguished  middle-aged  author 
of  cynical  tendencies  was  publishing  a  book  about  "God," 
having  just  made  His  acquaintance;  there  a  throng  of 
eager  suppliants  found  standing  room  only  in  their  rush 
to  hear  a  famous  thinker  discourse  upon  life  after  death. 
The  soldiers  themselves  had  developed  an  amazing  interest 
in  various  forms  of  religion.  These  were  signs  of  the 
times;  Helen  could  not  fail  to  see  them.  Old  formulated 
orthodoxy  was,  perhaps,  fading  away ;  but  on  eyery  hand 


380   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

she  recognised  a  rising  tide  of  interest  in  things  not 
material.  ,  »  . 

Words  of  Cuyler  Aspden  recurred  to  her.  They  had 
been  ii^  response  to  asseverations  of  her  own. 

"I  recognise  the  failures  of  the  Church  as  you  do," 
he  had  said.  "But — well,  as  a  physician  of  many  years' 
experience  I  have  witnessed  death  hundreds,  yes,  thou- 
sands of  times,  and  from  the  most  materialistic  stand- 
point, as  a  physician  must.  I  have  seen  that,  as  far 
as  I  could  prove,  death  meant  the  cessation  of  pulse,  of 
respiration,  of  cerebration,  and  nothing  beyond.  And 
in  spite  of  a  quarter-century  of  this  disillusioning  ex- 
perience, I  still  feel  that  there  is  something  that  my 
signature  of   the  death   certificate   fails   to   cover." 

Her  reflections  were  broken.  Three  telegrams  were 
handed  her. 


m 


The  first  one  opened  was  signed  "Philip  Oliver."  This 
fact  surprised  her ;  would  the  young  man  never  have  done 
with  his  pleadings.'^  With  a  bored  impassivity  she  be- 
gan to  read;  an  impassivity  that  turned  first  to  incred- 
ulity, then  to  alarm. 

"San  Francisco 
"Overtook  your  daughter  here.     She  consents  marry  me'* 

Its  frankly  succinct  statement  was  as  much  as  to  say, 
"I  give  you  fair  warning!" 

He  had  pursued  Bee  to  California! 

Helen  felt  a  sort  of  dizziness,  as  if  all  h^r  world,  which 


HELEN  REFLECTS  881 

she  Lad  so  carefully  mapped  and  laid  Out,  were  dancing 
about  in  topsy-turvy  fashion  before  her  eyes.  Why,  she 
had  arranged  everything!  She  had  packed  Bee  off  to 
safety,  she  had  informed  the  young  lover  that  his  game 
was   up,   she  had   settled   the  future   irrevocably.      And 

now 

Clumsy  with  bewilderment,  Helen  fumbled  at  opening 
the  second  message.     It  was  from  Cousin  Ress: 

"No  use  your  being  fool  any  longer.  Face  the  music.  I  would 
not  be  fat  old  maid  to-day  if  my  father  had  not  interfered.  Oliver 
fine  fellow.  Doubt  if  will  ever  have  money.  Not  mean  enough.  But 
will  keep  her  love.  That  better  and  more  unusual.  Will  be  married 
here  immediately.  Have  waited  long  enough,  poor  things.  Honey- 
moon Southern  California.     I  will  see  them  through." 

Helen's  sense  of  a  world  whirling  dizzily  about  her 
was  increasing.  Groping  for  foothold  upon  it,  she  opened 
Bee's  night-letter.  It  was  even  lengthier  than  Miss  Clif- 
ton's and  showered  with  an  extravagant  abundance  of 
connectives : 

"Dear  Helen, 

"Philip  is  here,  and  we  are  going  to  be  married  at  once.  I  wish 
I  could  think  of  you  as  happy  in  my  happiness,  but  I  suppose  it 
is  no  use.  It  seems  as  if  you  might  understand  my  love  because  of 
your  own  for  another  man,  but  you  never  have.  I  wish  you  would 
marry  Dr.  Aspden,  for  I  would  like  him  for  a  relation  now  that  I 
know  how  nice  he  is  and  he  is  so  pleasant  behind  his  growliness  and 
we  are  congenial  on  the  subject  of  dogs.  I  am  no  longer  acting 
clandestinely,  but  I  must  decide  for  myself,  and  there  is  no  wrong 
in  Philip's  and  my  great  love.  Cousin  Ress  has  ordered  the  most 
wonderful  wedding  cake,  with  frosting  like  that  snowstorm  in  New 
York  last  winter.  Please  try  to  understand  me  and  love  me  if  you 
can,  and  give  the  canary  lettuce. 

"Your  Bee." 

The  crumpled  papers  slid  from  Helen's  hand.  That 
sense  of  futility  which  had  been  growing  within  her  had 


382   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

indeed  become  an  avalanche.  Down,  down  it  went 
sliding,  carrying  with  it  one  purpose  after  another,  crush- 
ing them,  crumbling  them  to  atoms.  Helen  saw  herself 
as  a  creature  thwarted,  failing  in  every  effort  save  the 
material  striving.  That  was  triumphant;  in  terms  of 
rich  blue  upholstery  and  mahogany  and  potted  plants 
it  flaunted  itself.  But  in  the  other  strivings — ^nature  had 
beaten  her. 

That  was  what  it  came  to.  Nature  had  gained  her 
every  end.  In  spite  of  Helen,  Bee  had  developed  her 
art  to  exquisite  perfection.  And  that  sister  to  art,  ro- 
mantic love,  had  persistently  refused  to  surrender.  Even 
the  world-old  delusion  of  faith  had  snatched  her  child 
from  under  her  vigilant  eyes. 

Art,  love,  faith — in  spite  of  her.  Bee  had  found  them 
all.     They  were  Nature's  decree,  and  Nature  had  won. 

Futility  dominated  Helen's  mind  now.  She  had  made 
her  sacrifice — her  last,  supreme  effort,  and  she  had  failed. 
Nature  and  youth's  instinctive  belief  in  life,  were  stronger 
than  she  and  her  unbelief.     She  was  beaten.  .   .   . 

And  paradise.   .    .    . 

Her  breath  stopped  as  realisation  broke  upon  her.  Her 
happiness — she  had  renounced  it  all  for  nothing. 

She  might  have  had  her  paradise  after  all.  Upon  this 
she  fell  to  brooding. 


IV 


Far  into  the  forenoon  she  sat  alone  in  her  splendour, 
brooding  into  vacancy,  held  by  an  inertia  of  misery. 
It  was  almost  noon  when  someone  knocked;  when,  to  her 


HELEN  REFLECTS  S8S 

"Come  in,"  Dr.  Aspden  entered,  she  seemed  to  realise 
his  presence  only  dimly,  like  a  sick  person.  She  did  not 
even  wonder  at  his  coming  when  he  must  have  received 
her  letter. 

She  looked  up  dully.  Then,  picking  up  the  telegrams, 
she  handed  them  all  to  him. 

He  read  them  without  exclamation — read  them  slowly, 
fully.     Then,  very  quietly,  he  made  brief  comment: 

"Well— it  is  the  law  of  life." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  At  length,  raising  her  eyes 
from  the  sombre  study  of  vacancy  into  which  she  had 
again  fallen,  she  found  the  grave  grey  ones  awaiting 
them. 

"This  morning  I  received  a  letter  signed  by  you," 
Dr.  Aspden  said.  "But  I  feel  that  your  inmost,  truest 
self  did  not  write  that  letter." 

His  grave  eyes  blazed.  He  stepped  toward  her,  made 
as  though  to  take  her  hands,  a  vibration  shook  his  low 
voice : 

"Helen,  Helen  Kent,  was  not  that  letter  of  yours  false.'* 
Your  bitterness  must  be  only  a  black  cloud  through  which 
you  have  looked  wrongly  upon  life!  Happiness  is  for 
you,  if  you  will  only  let  yourself  take  it!  Learn  the 
truth  from  little  Bee — she  recognises  life,  and  reaches 
out,  and  takes  it!  I  came  back  resolved  that  if  you 
didn't  already  see,  I  would  make  you  see — ^I  would  fight 
down  that  false  fear  of  yours — for  it  is,  in  reality,  only 
fear — Bordeaux's  'La  Peur  de  Vivre' — ^I  will  overcome  it 
for  you,  with  you — you  wonderful,  loving,  courageous, 
bitter,  self -deluded,  glorious  woman " 

For  the  moment,  something  within  her  vibrated  in  re- 


384j      the  daughter  OF  HELEN  KENT 

sponse.  For  that  moment  it  seemed  that  a  fog  was 
rolling  away:  a  fog  of  morbid  doubt,  of  life-long  dis- 
trust, of  black  hopelessness.  As  if  light  were  breaking 
through  a  veiled  sky.  .  .  .  The  fog  again  .  .  .  closing 
in.  .  .  . 

Her  eyes  fell  away  from  the  hold  of  his,  a  muscular 
depression  caused  her  whole  body  to  sag.  Again  she 
was  gazing  greyly  into  vacancy.  He  barely  made  out 
her  words,  for  her  voice,  too,  fell  with  her  falling  spirit. 

"It's  too  late,"  said  Helen  Kent. 

"I'll  be  frank  with  you,"  she  went  on  sombrely,  still 
speaking  into  the  grey  void.  "I  did  have  a  few  hours 
of  illusion.  Human  weakness — I'm  not  above  it.  Things 
looked  rose-coloured  for  awhile.  I  resolved  to  take  it — • 
to  take  the  illusion  of  paradise,  even  knowing  that  dis- 
illusion was  to  follow.  I  was  mad  for  a  few  hours.  And 
in  the  end  I  cast  this  fancied  happiness  away  to  save 
Bee.  I  thought,  by  setting  her  a  good  example,  I  could 
make  sure  of  her  renouncing  marriage,  which  would  mean 
her  tragedy.  I  made  what,  at  that  hour,  was  the  su- 
preme sacrifice  of  my  life.  I  watched  gates  swing  shut 
on  paradise. 

"Well — I  didn't  save  her.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes — ^"  she  put  out 
her  hand  as  if  to  push  away  his  expected  protests,  "you 
think  that  releases  me.  It  does.  No  use  of  the  sacrifice 
now.    I'm  free. 

"Free."  She  rose  wearily.  "But  it's  too  late.  I  was 
mad  for  a  little  while,  drunk  with  the  thought  of  a  brief 
paradise,  ready  to  face  any  misery  for  the  sake  of  it, 
but  now^ 

"That's   over.     I've  come  to   my  senses.     No,  don't 


HELEN  REFLECTS  385 

urge.  It's  no  good."  In  grey  heaviness  she  drew  on 
her  wraps.  "I'm  thirty-nine,  and  I  can't  begin  to  ac- 
quire illusions,  at  this  stage  of  the  game."  She  snapped 
a   glove-fastener  and  laid  her  hand   on   the  door-knob. 

She  turned,  as  if  to  speak;  hesitated,  then 

"Oh,  I  wish,"  broke  from  her  as  she  met  his  eyes  for 
a  single  instant,  "I  wish  it  were  not  too  late!" 


She  was  gone.  Every  impulse  of  his  desire,  his  will, 
his  resolve  moved  to  follow  her,  to  protest,  to  conquer, 
to  capture;  but  some  opposing  force  chained  him.  He 
must  seize  her,  draw  her  back,  crush  her — ^he  who  had 
resolved  to  fight  her  obsession  to  the  death — why  was 
he  standing  dumb  and  motionless? 

And  as  the  door  closed  upon  her  he  realised  that 
it  was  because  somehow,  at  last,  he  knew. 

He  knew  that  a  lifetime  of  battle  would  be  no  use, 
for  she  would  create  the  very  unhappiness  that  she  an- 
ticipated by  her  fixed  belief  in  it.  She  was  not  the  victim 
of  a  mere  passing  doubt;  rather,  the  soul  of  doubt  was 
inherent  in  her,  it  was  the  very  essence  of  her  nature. 
As  Bee  was  the  eternal  affirmative,  the  spirit  that  takes 
life  on  trust,  letting  what  may  follow,  so  Helen  was  the 
eternal  negative,  disbelieving  at  every  turn.  They  were 
like  the  two  great  world-forces,  the  eternal  Yea  and 
Nay,  the  Nay  ever  futile  against  the  onward  stream  of 
life.  <' 

Irrelevantly  he  observed  to  himself: 


386   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

'*I'd  like  to  know  that  young  man  who's  carried  off 
her  daughter.  .  ,  ." 

"Too  late  to  acquire  illusions.'*  It  had  always  been 
too  late.  His  self-confident  diagnosis  of  her  "case"  and 
his  projected  *'cure"  returned  to  him,  fatuous  and  smug 
in  his  ears.  He,  who  had  been  so  sure  of  himself,  of 
his  power  to  fight  to  a  finish,  was  left  standing  alone, 
impotent,  beaten  along  with  Helen  herself,  fellow-victim 
of  her  unconquerable  disbelief.  Once,  in  her  girlhood, 
that  disbelief  must  have  failed  her,  he  knew;  but  equally 
he  knew  that  it  would  never  fail  her  again.  It  had  all 
along  been  "too  late." 

The  accident  of  an  unhappy  marriage  had  not  made* 
Helen  Kent  the  doubter  she  was;  rather,  the  soul  of 
doubt  within  her  had  moulded  her.  The  tragic  experi- 
ence had  not  been  the  cause  of  her  scepticism;  could  her 
scepticism  have  been  in  any  way  the  cause  of  her  tragic 
experience?  oddly  occurred  to  him.  Could  it  indeed  be 
true  that  "the  soul  contains  in  itself  the  event  that 
shall  befall  it?"  A  sweeping  statement,  that,  of  the 
poet.  .  .  . 

"How  are  you.  Doc?"  McNab^s  entrance  came  like 
a  crash  upon  his  reverie. 

"I  came  to  get  some  papers  I  left  in  my  hurried  de- 
parture. Here  they  are.  I  shan't  be  in  again,'*  said 
Dr.  Aspden* 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
AUTUMN  SANDS 


THE  autumn  blue  of  Santa  B'arbara's^  sea — a 
particular  blue  which  it  is  said  that  no  other 
water  but  the  Bay  of  Naples  ever  achieves — • 
glinted  in  their  eyes,  giving  off  the  sun's  reflected  light 
like  metal.  The  sand  lay  warm  beneath  them ;  the  slight, 
very  slight  breeze  bore  from  the  land  a  fragrance  of  late 
roses  to  mingle  with  the  sea  smell  of  naked  kelp. 

"Helen  came  here,  too,'*  Bee  said  musingly,  after  a 
long  silence  through  which  she  had  absently  built  ram- 
parts of  sand  and  demolished  them. 

"You  mean  when  they,  too,  were  just  married?" 

"Yes.  She  told  me  all  about  it  once.  They  went 
often  to  the  Mission,  just  as  we  have  done.  That  very, 
very  old  Padre,  humped  almost  double,  poor  dear,  in  his 
brown  robe — the  one  that  showed  us  the  illuminated 
volumes — I  have  an  idea  is  the  same  one  who  showed 
them   to    Helen — and   Vernon." 

"Dear,  don't  think  of  anything  that  makes  you  sad," 
Philip  begged,  noting  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

She  turned  full  upon  him.  "I'm  not  sad  about  Ver- 
non, even  if  I  did  wink  a  tear.     I  feel  richer,  somehow, 

387 


388   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

because  I  know  him  now,  and  he  understands  me  and 
I  understand  him."  Always  the  tense  was  present  when 
Bee  spoke  of  her  dead  father.  "As  for  being  sad  about 
£jwz/thing,"  she  went  on,  " — Philip,  I'm  so  happy — so 
happier  than  I  ever  dreamed  that  mortals  on  this  mere 
earth  could  be — that  nothing-  in  existence,  or  in  imagi- 
nation, could  possibly  make  me  sad.  But,  just  because 
I'm  so  happy,  I'm  stiU — inside,  as  well,  as  out.  Do  you 
know  what  I  mean?  It's  as  if  I'd  found  the  great  final 
Heaven,  and  there  could  never  be  any  more  worry  or  even 
wishing — there's  nothing  to  do  but  sit  still  and  think 
about  how  nice  it  is,  forever." 

"Flow-ahs?  Ros-es?  Cah-nations  ?"  sang  a  little 
Spanish  flower-seller  along  the  beach.  Philip  bought  a 
great  bouquet,  "for  my  wife,"  he  observed  with  unction, 
^uch  terms  as  "wife,"  "husband,"  "married,"  and  the 
like  throb  at  every  utterance  while  the  honeymoon  is 
young. 

"You're  already  almost  as  pink  as  these,"  he  declared, 
as  Bee  pinned  the  roses  against  her  white  gown.  "By 
the  time  our  fortnight  is  up,  and  you're  back  in  New 
York,  your  mother  won't  know  her  invalid."  It  had 
only  wanted  happiness  for  Bee's  complete  recovery. 

"My  mother,"  Bee  mused.  "I  hope  she  and  I  can 
begin  all  over,  like  sisters  again.  I  mean  to  try.  I 
suppose  it's  hard  to  put  things  back  as  they  were  be- 
fore.   But  I've  blotted  out  all  my  old  resentment." 

His  eyebrows  arched  involuntarily.  In  time,  he  trusted, 
he  would  learn  forgiveness  ;  but  encounters  with  that  jetty 
lady  still  rankled. 

**I  know,"  said  Bee,  "that  Fve  never  understood  her. 


AUTUMN  SANDS  389 

But  I  think  she  has  understood  herself  still  less.  And 
it's  because  she  didn't  understand  herself,  that  she 
couldn't  understand  me.  At  any  rate,  I  know  that  her 
one  motive  was  always  a  passionate  desire  for  what  she 
believed  would  be  my  happiness.  Cousin  Ress  talked 
to  me  about  it." 

"Miss  Clifton,  bless  her!  She's  the  sport  par  excel- 
lencel*'  His  favoritism  was  patent.  "Wasn't  she  great 
— to  put  off  sailing  till  the  next  boat  so  as  to  get  us 
up  a  jolly  little  wedding  right  in  the  hotel — cake,  flow- 
ers, and  all — and  to  ship  us  off  here,  crying,  *Bless  you, 
my  children,'  wheezing  like  an  automobile  all  the 
time " 

"I've  always  felt  that  Cousin  Ress  must  have  a  love 
story  of  her  own  tucked  away  in  her  heart,  or  she 
couldn't  be  so  romantic — considering  how  fat  she  is," 
murmured  Bequita  reflectively. 


There  were  fourteen  untarnished  golden  days  of  blue 
water,  late  roses,  sands  that  held  the  sun-warmth  in  their 
hollows,  idle  strolls  to  the  Franciscan  Mission  where 
the  brown-robed  Padres  welcomed  them  under  the  ancient 
bell-tower,  loafings  in  a  hotel  garden  of  rustling  palms  and 
bamboo.  With  exquisite  emphasis  each  day  repeated  the 
beauty  of  the  preceding,  until  the  fortnight  became  like 
a  chime. 

Gaiety  was  not  the  pitch.  It  was  all,  as  Bee  said, 
too  happy  for  that — it  was  so  rapturous  that  it  was 
still.     They  talked  even  soberly. 


390   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

"Dear  me,  I  must  write  to  Zelie.  I've  been  neglecting 
her  dreadfully,"  she  repented  one  day,  when  buying  post- 
cards of  the  Mission. 

Philip  started  to  reply — thought  better  of  it — checked 
himself  abruptly;  but  Bee  had  caught  him. 

*'What  is  it — do  you  know  anything  about  her  now?" 
she  asked  quickly. 

He  hesitated.     "No,"  he  said  at  length. 

But,  loafing  on  the  sand  later  on,  she  took  it  up. 

**Phil,  you  do  know  something  about  Zelie.  Tell  me. 
I've  never  had  a  word  from  her  since  I  told  her  good- 
bye upon  leaving  for  the  Catskills,  August  first,  though 
I  wrote  and  wrote." 

He  thought.  "I  believe  I  might  as  well  tell  you,"  he 
said  at  length,  "although  it  may  cause  you  sadness.  But 
sooner  or  later  you'd  find  out." 

"Phil!      Is   it   something   dreadful?" 

"I  don't  know  even  that.  I  only  know  that  Zelie's 
gone." 

"Gone!" 

"Vanished.  Completely.  I  called  a  few  times  and 
couldn't  get  in,  and  at  last  I  hunted  up  the  janitress. 
She  says  that,  early  in  August,  Zelie  paid  up  every  bill 
in  her  square  little  way,  took  Villageoise,  and  went.  No- 
body knows  where.  The  studio  stands  forsaken  gather- 
ing dust,  poor  old  baronial  chairs  and  all." 

"Phil!     Oh,  what  can  it  mean?" 

Again  he  hesitated.  *'I  think  it  means  that  Z^ie 
saw  a  task  she  had  set  herself  accomplished,  and 
that  then — she  was  through." 

"My  dear!     You  mean  her  seeing  me  launched?" 


AUTUMN  SANDS  391 

"Her  seeing  you  launched.'* 

"But  it's  as  though  I  had  driven  her  away,  some- 
how." 

"Don't  feel  that.  It  was  her  great  desire — and  she's 
a  vagabond  by  instinct.  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  you  what 
I  have  learned  about  her.  But  I  believe,  on  second 
thoughts,  I  will.  .  .  . 

"It  seems,  Bee,  that  she  gave  her  G.  O.,  as  she  al- 
ways called  it,  to  you.  I've  found  this  out  only  very 
lately,  inquiring  here  and  there,  putting  two  and  two 
together.  She  kept  it  a  secret.  But — she  was  chosen 
in  the  beginning  to  dance  as  the  star  performer  of  the 
Pageant — the  Indian  girl.  It  was  at  her  suggestion 
that  the  Indian  girl  was  cut  out,  and  the  dance  and 
stellar  role  given  to  the  White  Maiden.  .  .  .  Bee !  Don't, 
dear,  don't!" 

"I  can't— can't  bear  it,  Philip !" 

"In  time  you  can — for  you  wiU  realise  that  to  a  nature 
as  rare  as  Zelie's,  such  sacrifice  is  the  supreme  happi- 
ness. It  hurts,  I  know — it  hurts  me,  too,  for  I  share 
with  you.  But  think  what  it  is  always  going  to  be  to 
both  of  us  to  have  had  her  as  a  friend — always  to  have 
her,  in  memory.  ,  .  ." 


m 


At  the  end  of  the  fortnight  they  jumped  up  and  down 
upon  their  trunks,  to  make  the  stubborn  lids  shut  upon 
all  the  treasures  they  had  bought. 

"We  have  ^o-m^hing,  anyway,  toward  furnishing  art 
apartment,"  Bee  observed  with  grave  satisfaction.   "That 


392   THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HELEN  KENT 

Navajo  blanket  will  be  a  great  help  in  the  living-room^ 
And  the  bronze  Japanese  lantern — and  there  are  two 
dozen  cakes  of  that  wonderful  soap  made  from  the  na- 
tive olives — and — ^let's  see — ^how  many  tins  of  clam  juice 
did  I  get?" 

"I  feel,"  solemnly  responded  Philip,  "that  the  apart- 
ment is  practically  equipped  for  housekeeping  already, 
with  a  Japanese  lantern,  a  Navajo  blanket,  two  dozen 
cakes  of  soap,  and  some  clam  juice — to  say  nothing  of 
a  (dog  awaiting  us  in  New  York " 

"Dear  A.  D.  T. !" 

She  waxed  suddenly  grave  with  responsibility.  "And 
now  that  I'm  well,  and  crazy  to  dance  again,  I  shall  be 
able  to  help  along " 

"Now  look  here!  My  wife  doesn't  *help  along' — is 
that  clearly  understood?  To  be  sure,  I'm  no  tyrant  of 
an  earlier  generation,  and  I  don't  intend  to  slaughter  an 
artist  to  make  me  a  helpmate,  and  if  she  wants  to  dance  for 
her  own  and  other  people's  pleasure  she  can  dance  till  the 
cows  come  home.  But  not  to  pay  for  my  porterhouse.'* 
His  chest  inflated.  "Perhaps  this  will  'help  along,'  in^ 
stead,"  and  he  handed  her  a  letter  just  received  from 
Mr.  Frost. 

"Your  Chief — oh — oh — Philip  Oliver!  Congratula- 
tions, and  a  raise!    Phil-Zip/" 

Their  hands  clasped,  and  he  whirled  her,  dizzingly,  to 
the  tune  oi  her  enraptured  squeals. 

"Darling!  Now  can't  we  have  an  electric  toaster?" 
was  her  passionate  request.    And : 

"An  electric  toaster  shall  celebrate  the  first  breakfast 
at  home  of  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Phihp  R.  Oliver.     And  you 


AUTUMN  SANDS  393 

may  burn  the  toast,  dearest,  as  much  as  you  desire,"  was 
his  promise. 

And  so  they  made  ready,  after  the  way  of  the  world, 
to  build  and  feather  the  nest.  Helen  Kent,  more  than 
twenty  years  before,  had  done  the  same.  And  the  out- 
come for  Helen  Kent's  daughter  lay,  as  it  had  lain  for 
her,  on  the  knees  of  the  gods* 


END 


There  s  More  to  Follow! 

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books  here  you  are  sure  to  want — some, 
possibly,  that  you  have  always  wanted. 

It  is  a  selected  list;  every  book  in  it 
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